E. TEMPLE  THURSTON 


V 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


"  This  was  the  kitchen  that  had  been  Nanno's  mew  of  life 

for  nineteen  years.'''1 

Page  82.—  Traffic. 

Taken  from  the  spot  by  LUKE  TAYLOR,  A.R.E. 


TRAFFIC 

The  Story  of  a  Faithful  Woman 


BY 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

AUTHOR   OF 

"  THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN  " 


G.   W.    DILLINGHAM    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 


A II  Rights  Reserved 


?R 


TO 

p.  f .  Bollock. 


938851 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 
THE  LOVE-CHILD. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER! 11 

CHAPTER  II 20 

CHAPTER  III 26 

CHAPTER  IV 33 

CHAPTER  V 43 

CHAPTER  VI 49 

CHAPTER  VII  56 

CHAPTER  VIII 69 

CHAPTER  IX 74 

CHAPTER  X 82 

CHAPTERXI 90 

CHAPTER  XII 95 

CHAPTER  XIII 103 

BOOK  II. 
HOLY  MATRIMONY. 

CHAPTER  1 113 

CHAPTER  II 119 

CHAPTER  III 129 

CHAPTER  IV 138 

BOOK  III. 
THE  WORLD,  THE  FLESH,  AND  THE  LAW. 

CHAPTER  1 151 

CHAPTER  II 161 

5 


6  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  III 165 

CHAPTER  IV 170 

CHAPTER  V  184 

CHAPTER  VI 189 

CHAPTER  VII  , 196 

CHAPTER  VIII 203 

CHAPTER  IX 211 

CHAPTER  X 220 

CHAPTER  XI 227 

CHAPTER  XII 233 

CHAPTER  XIII 240 

CHAPTERXIV 252 

CHAPTER  XV 262 

BOOK  IV. 

THE  CROSS-ROADS. 

CHAPTER  1 269 

CHAPTER  II 279 

CHAPTER  III 283 

CHAPTER  IV 288 

BOOK  V. 

THE  UPLIFTED  HAND. 

CHAPTER  1 303 

CHAPTER  II 311 

CHAPTER  III 319 

CHAPTER  IV 325 

CHAPTER  V 339 

BOOK  VI. 

THE  END  OF  THE  TRAFFIC. 

CHAPTER  I , 349 

CHAPTER  II 857 

CHAPTER  III..  371 


BOOK  I. 

THE  LOVE-CHILD. 


•' .  .  .  For  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;   riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none  ;  contract,  successsion, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none; 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil 
No  occupation;   all  men  idle,  all; 
And  women  too, —but  innocent  and  pure; 
No  sovereignty."— Act  II,  scene  1. — The  Tempest. 


TRAFFIC. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  sun  which  had  been  white  with  heat  all  day,  was 
growing  deeper  and  deeper  in  a  tone  of  orange;  and  as 
though  some  unseen  hand  were  plunging  it  again  into 
the  bowels  of  a  furnace,  it  sank  slowly  behind  the  horizon. 
Long  strands  of  purplish  clouds,  rimmed  with  palest  gold, 
stretched  across  a  sky  of  primrose,  and  in  the  east,  great 
banks  of  cumulus  clouds  were  lit  with  cream  and  pink,  like 
snow-capped  mountains  lifting  their  rounded  peaks  into 
the  unknown.  A  haze  of  gold  hung  about  the  land  in  a 
mist;  every  tree  or  bush  that  rose  up  before  the  sun  was 
black.  Evening  lurked  in  every  shadow,  and  the  last 
breath  of  the  day  was  almost  drawn. 

In  the  middle  of  autumn  it  was  late  to  be  driving  home 
the  cattle;  yet  across  the  fields,  their  tails  swishing  lethar- 
gically to  keep  off  the  stray  flies  that  had  followed  them, 
their  udders  swinging  heavily  from  side  to  side,  like  cum- 
brous bells  swaying  to  an  impotent  hand,  seven  cows 
walked  peacefully  before  a  tall  girl,  whose  rounded  figure 
was  silhouetted  with  impressionistic  effect  against  the  sky- 
line. 

The  gait  of  the  animals,  their  ambling,  even  motion, 
brought  one  a  sense  of  contentment.  One  felt  that  they 
needed  the  relief  of  the  hands  that  were  to  milk  them. 
One  inevitably  realized  that  the  day  was  over.  When 

11 


12  TRAFFIC. 

they  were  out  of  sight,  it  seemed  that  nothing  was  left 
to  be  done. 

In  the  girl  herself  this  sense  had  imparted  itself  as  well. 
Occasionally  she  laid  a  light  hand  upon  the  hind-quarters 
of  the  last  cow  as  it  lagged  behind.  But  she  gave  them 
no  word  of  command.  In  her  eyes  as  she  came  nearer  you 
could  see  the  reflected  light  of  the  sunset.  It  tinted  her 
face  with  a  deep  russet  red  and  added  to  the  color  of  her 
lips.  Her  hands  that  swung  by  her  side  were  of  the  same 
deep  shade,  and  her  hair  that  was  brown  looked  almost 
black  in  the  half  light. 

By  the  side  of  a  gap  in  a  wall  of  grass-sod  and  stone, 
a  man  was  crouching  with  a  gun  on  his  knee.  She  was 
bound  to  pass  through  that  way.  The  field  had  no  other 
egress  beyond  the  gate  at  the  farther  end  by  which  she  had 
entered.  And  so  he  waited  and  watched  her. 

The  solitary  man  who  awaits  the  approach  of  a  solitary 
woman,  whether  she  be  peasant,  lady  or  sprite,  will  accord 
her  a  share  of  interest  which  only  the  state  of  circumstances 
can  reasonably  guarantee.  His  thoughts  will  be  drawn  to- 
wards her  as  though  she  might  be  the  only  woman  in  the 
world,  which,  in  fact,  as  far  as  his  horizon  is  concerned,  she 
is.  There  is  some  instinct  which  is  almost  primeval — cer- 
tainly animal — that  stirs  in  his  mind.  The  spirit  of  com- 
petition drives  many  men ;  but  the  law  of  nature  leads  one 
and  all  of  them,  blindfolded,  by  the  hand. 

The  man  with  the  gun  altered  his  position  in  order  to  be 
able  to  see  her  better.  He  speculated  on  her  appearance 
from  the  frayed  black  outline  that  he  saw.  He  wondered 
vaguely  if  she  would  start  when  she  came  through  the  gap 
and  saw  him  sitting  there.  He  thought  of  things  he  might 
say  to  her ;  then  he  lowered  the  hammers  of  his  gun.  Just 
as  he  had  done  so,  a  rabbit  started  out  of  its  burrow.  He 
had  come  out  to  shoot  rabbits.  This  one  was  not  more  than 


TRAFFIC.  13 

thirty  yards  away  from  him.  For  a  moment  a  light  came 
into  his  eyes;  his  fingers  stirred  on  the  triggers,  but  he 
did  not  raise  the  gun.  Had  he  been  introspective  he 
would  have  smiled  at  the  control  of  action,  but  he  did  not 
notice  it ;  his  eyes  returned  again  to  the  approaching  figure 
of  the  girl.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  came,  until  the  forms  of 
the  foremost  cattle,  enlarged  out  of  proportion  by  the 
lessened  perspective,  almost  hid  her  from  view. 

The  first  cow  gazed  at  him  as  it  passed  through  the  gap. 
The  others  followed  its  example.  The  last  one  stopped 
abruptly.  He  rose  to  his  feet  as,  diminishing  the  distance 
between  her  and  the  hesitating  beast,  the  girl  came  up 
behind  it  and  looked  to  see  what  had  caused  its  delay. 

The  man  stepped  back  another  pace,  and  she  gazed 
at  him  with  big,  gray  eyes.  Had  she  been  quite  ordinary, 
quite  commonplace,  he  would  probably  have  said  something 
at  once.  As  it  was,  he  remained  silent  and  studied  her. 
She  was  not  commonplace.  She  was  far  from  ordinary. 
In  the  gray  eyes  that  surveyed  him,  there  was  a  shadow 
of  fate — a  foreboding  of  tho  .future  that  gave  her  a  subtle 
distinction.  She  was  utterly  unlike  her  type.  The  es- 
sentially Irish  girl  of  her  class  is  round-cheeked,  red- 
lipped,  and  heavy-eyed ;  there  is  a  daring  in  her  glance, 
but  in  this  girl's  there  was  none;  only  the  suggestion 
of  submission  to  some  power  greater  than  her  own.  The 
essentially  Irish  girl  has  the  attractions  of  the  moment. 
This  girl  possessed  that  fascination  which  does  not  insist  or 
compel,  but  which  grows  between  the  moments  of  forget- 
fulness. 

To  the  reader  this  may  convey  an  appearance  of  fragil- 
ity, a  description  that  would  be  absolutely  incorrect  to 
apply  to  her.  She  was  not  fragile.  She  was  not  Tin- 
formed.  There  is  a  stage  in  the  development  of  a  girl, 
when  apparent  development  has  scarcely  begun.  It  is  a 
phase  that  makes  no  appeal  to  the  man  whose  instincts 


14  TRAFFIC. 

are  young  enough  to  be  healthy.  This  girl,  no  doubt 
prematurely,  had  passed  that  stage.  She  was  a  woman — a 
woman  of  nineteen.  As  she  stood  there,  in  the  one  moment 
that  they  looked  at  each  other,  he  would,  had  he  been  asked, 
have  described  her  as  married.  There  was  a  subtle  com- 
pletion of  her  figure  showing,  certainly  to  little  advantage, 
under  the  close-fitting  bodice  of  homespun.  Almost  un- 
hesitatingly he  would  have  said  that  she  was  married.  The 
life  experiences  of  a  woman  mostly  end  with  that  con- 
dition. She  shows  it  in  her  face;  her  eyes  understand. 
And,  without  reasoning  it,  merely  taking  the  superficial 
impression,  it  seemed  to  him  that  that  understanding  was 
to  be  found  there  in  the  eyes  that  met  his. 

"Are  there  many  rabbits  about  this  field?"  he  asked, 
endeavoring  to  break  the  silence  that  threatened  to  become 
awkward. 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  his  gun,  then  rose  again  with 
an  unsympathetic  expression  to  his  face. 

"  They  do  burrow  in  the  hedges,"  she  replied.  "  Have 
ye  shot  any  ?  " 

«Nb." 

The  momentary  contempt  that  showed  in  her  face  made 
him  wince. 

"  I've  only  seen  a  couple.  They  get  away  rather  quick, 
and  I'm  not  much  of  a  shot.  Does  this  land  belong  to 
you?" 

"Tis  me  father's  land." 

"  Where's  his  farm  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head  in  the  direction  of  a  white-washed, 
thatched  building  that  the  sun  was  lighting  up  behind  a 
clump  of  trees. 

"  Bi  the  trees  there,"  she  replied ;  then,  seeing  that  the 
cows  had  wandered  far  ahead  of  her,  across  the  field,  she 
began  to  move  in  their  direction. 


TRAFFIC.  15 

"Perhaps  your  father  \vould  object  to  my  shooting 
rabbits  on  his  land  ? "  he  suggested,  walking  slowly  by 
her  side. 

"  Shure,  'tis  no  harm,"  she  said — "  if  ye  don't  hit  any." 

He  was  about  to  smile  at  the  humor  which  he  thought 
she  intended  to  convey,  when  he  saw  the  serious  expres- 
sion of  her  mouth.  What  she  had  said,  she  had  meant  in 
irony.  The  realization  of  that  amazed  him  for  a  moment. 
There  is  something  servile  in  the  Irish  character  when 
brought  in  contact  with  strangers — servile  as  opposed  to 
that  curt  aggressiveness  of  the  English  manner.  This  was 
not  servile.  There  was  something  almost  intellectual  in 
the  satire  of  it.  He  looked  at  her  face,  but  it  by  no  means 
belied  the  impression  that  her  words  had  given.  The 
eyes,  gazing  out  before  her  over  the  shadowy  fields,  as  a 
sailor's  which  rest  forever  on  the  sea,  were  quiet,  gentle, 
restful.  Her  chin  was  gracefully  molded,  and  the 
mouth,  too  large  to  deserve  the  customary  epithets  that 
befit  a  woman,  compelled  interest  for  its  fulness  of  hu- 
manity. There  was  no  irony  there.  Then  something  had 
offended  her. 

"  Do  you  object,  then  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  turned  her  face  in  his  direction,  and  he  saw  that 
he  had  surprised  her  by  his  question. 

"  'Tis  the  way  it  seems  so  cruel,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Everyone  treats  the  animals  cruel  round  here." 

"  But  you  don't  ?     You're  fond  of  animals  ?  " 

"  I  am  thin.  Shure  what  harm  are  they  doin'  ?  "  She 
spoke  very  gently.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  though  she 
were  talking  to  herself.  "  When  I  come  out  here  in  the 
mornin'  to  bring  in  the  cows,  I  counts  all  the  rabbits  I  sees 
in  these  fields  here,  and  the  same  in  the  evening.  They're 
gettin'  less  afraid  of  me  than  they  used  to  be.  Sometimes 
I  sees  as  many  as  twenty  rabbits." 


16  TRAFFIC. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a  vandal?  " 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"Well — I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a  brute  to  com«  out 
here  with  a  gun  and  try  and  shoot  'em  ?  " 

"  I  dunno' — most  men  do  it  round  here  what  have 
guns.  They  can't  keep  off  it;  'tis  their  nature,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Do  you  study  human  nature  ?  " 

"  One  sees  things  sometimes.  'Tisn't  everyone's  alike, 
except  men,  when  they  want  to  kill  somethin'." 

He  smiled. 

"  Do  you  think  women  are  individually  more  different 
as  a  sex  than  men  ?  " 

She  hesitated  and  gazed  vaguely  before  her.  He  was 
drawing  her  into  deep  water.  The  knowledge  of  human 
nature  which  she  possessed  was  instinctive,  inherent;  not 
cultivated.  She  could  not  argue  about  it;  she  could  not 
discuss  it.  What  she  learnt  was  more  from  unconscious 
observation.  She  made  no  wilful  study  of  the  people  about 
her. 

He  saw  her  hesitation;  realized  what  it  meant,  and  was 
just  about  to  simplify  his  question  when  she  spoke. 

"I  dunno',"  she  replied;  "shure  I  dunno'." 

And  he  understood  that  she  had  not  grasped  his  meaning. 
Then  he  lost  interest  in  the  subject.  He  judged  her  from 
the  standpoint  of  his  own  intellectuality — the  college  train- 
ing of  the  average  Englishman.  By  this  type  of  rash  judg- 
ment, half  the  interesting  personalities  in  life  are  lost 
sight  of.  But  the  man  with  the  gun  was  keener  than  the 
majority.  He  abandoned  the  contemplation  of  the  subject 
of  human  nature,  but  his  interest  in  the  girl  had  not  abated 
at  all. 

Keeping  pace  with  the  laborious  movements  of  the  cows 
before  them,  they  had  made  but  slow  progress,  and  there 


TRAFFIC.  17 

were  still  two  more  fields  to  cross  before  they  reached  the 
farmhouse  where*  she  had  said  that  her  father  lived. 

"  Is  Crowley  your  father  s  name  ?  "  he  asked  at  length, 
after  the  pause  that  had  followed  her  answer  to  his  last 
question. 

"'Tis  not.     'Tis  Troy— John  Troy." 

"  Oh — John  Troy.     And  what's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Nanno." 

There  was  no  trace  of  self-consciousness  in  her  answer. 
It  might  have  been  anyone's  name  but  her  own. 

"  That's  rather  uncommon — isn't  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Maybe  it  is.  'Tis  a  county  Wexford  name,  it  is — I 
b'lieve." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  I  hadn't  heard  it  before.  Nanno  Troy 
—is  that  it  ?  " 

He  looked  up  once  more  at  her  face.  She  nodded 
her  head  and  shook  loose  a  strand  of  deep  earth-brown  hair 
so  that  it  fell  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  standstill,  "  I  suppose 
you'll  be  going  to  milk  the  cows  now  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  she  replied.  She  pushed  the  loosened  strand 
into  a  crevice  of  the  mass  of  hair  on  her  head. 

"Then  I'll  say  good-night." 

He  hesitated,  then  half  raised  his  cap  as  he  turned 
away. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  she  said. 

He  looked  round  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  Her  face 
was  once  more  set  towards  the  farm  and  the  clump  of 
trees.  It  was  a  disappointment. 

"  I'll  have  greater  respect  for  rabbits  in  the  future,"  he 
called  back.  "  You  won't  find  me  trying  to  shoot  them 
any  more." 

She  looked  round  and  smiled.  He  could  see  the  last 
rays  of  the  sun  in  her  eyes,  and  felt  satisfied.  In  another 


18  TRAFFIC. 

moment  he  had  clambered  over  the  hedge  on  to  the  road 
that  runs  to  Anesk  and  was  out  of  sight. 

Nanno  drove  the  cows  on  silently,  wondering  who  he 
could  have  been.  As  she  turned  the  animals  into  the  last 
field,  the  figure  of  a  small  boy  came  out  of  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  round  the  house  and  ran  to  meet  her.  The  grass 
rattled  against  his  bare  legs  like  the  muted  crackling  of 
firewood  and,  as  he  ran,  he  stooped  without  hesitating  to 
pluck  the  blossoms  off  the  scabii  that  grew  everywhere. 

"  Is  that  you,  Johnnie  ?  "  Nanno  called.  The  sun  had 
finally  disappeared  and  the  gold  of  the  evening  light  was 
slowly  waning  to  uncertain  tones  of  blue  and  shadows  of 
gray.  It  was  an  eerie  atmosphere ;  hard  to  recognize  any- 
one in.  A  frog  jumping  suddenly  in  the  grass  would  have 
set  anyone's  heart  beating. 

"  It  is,"  was  the  answer,  called  in  a  deep  boy's  treble. 
Nanno  lost  sight  of  him  then  behind  the  cows,  but  in 
another  moment  the  youngest  member  of  the  Troy  family 
was  beside  her. 

She  took  his  hand  gently. 

"  Did  herself  come  back  from  Anesk  ?  "  she  asked.  The 
allusion  was  made  to  her  mother. 

"  She  be  just  afther  comm',"  he  replied,  looking  over 
his  shoulder  towards  the  sunset  and  pulling  on  her  hand. 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Shure,  nothin'  at  all." 

"  Did  she  meet  any  in  Anesk  ?  " 

Johnnie  looked  over  his  shoulder  again. 

"  She  did  I  suppose.  I  dunno.  She  did  av  course." 
For  the  third  time  he  pulled  on  her  hand. 

"  What  are  ye  starin'  at  over  there  ?  "  she  asked  curi- 
ously. 

"  The  crocidile." 

"  What  crocidile  ?  " 


TRAFFIC.  19 

He  stopped  and  turned  her  round  with  him,  pointing 
towards  the  sunset. 

"  There's  the  crocidile."  His  finger  indicated  a  long 
purple  cloud  that  was  lying  in  the  primrose  sky.  The 
faint  murmuring  of  distant  breaths  of  wind  had  blown  it 
to  the  grotesque  shape  which  he  saw.  "D'ye  see  his 
mouth  open  ?  " 

She  looked  down  at  the  serious  little  face  and  the  tense 
figure  that  still  pointed  with  a  rigid,  dirty  finger. 

"  Ye  can  almost  see  his  teeth,"  she  said. 

"  Few  minutes  back  ye  could,"  he  informed  her.  "  I 
watched  thim  meltin'  away.  I  wonder  how  long  he'll 
stay  a  crocidile.  There's  one  over  there  afther  changin' 
into  a  littleen  lamb." 

The  cows  were  waiting  patiently  at  the  gate  that  led 
from  the  field  into  the  farm.  Nanno  hurried  forward, 
pushed  it  open,  and  then,  one  by  one,  their  hoofs  sucking 
in  the  mud  as  they  passed  through,  they  disappeared  into 
the  deeper  shadows  of  the  yard ;  and  with  one  last  look  at 
the  purple  crocodile  in  the  west,  Johnnie  and  Nanno  fol- 
lowed silently  after  them.  You  could  hear  the  gate  click 
and  then  a  curlew  called  out  at  sea. 


CHAPTER  II. 

TROY'S  LANE,  which  was  the  first  boreen  off  the  main 
road  as  you  come  from  Rathmore  to  Anesk,  leads  up  to 
the  farm  where  Nanno  lived.  It  is  not  uncommon  for 
boreens,  creeks,  streams,  hollows,  in  these  parts  of  Ireland, 
to  be  called  after  those  who  live  by  them.  John  Troy's 
farm  was  the  only  residence  adjoining  the  boreen;  to  en- 
able him  to  bring  his  carts  up  to  the  farm  from  the  main 
road  the  boreen  had  been  made — accordingly  it  was  called 
Troy's  Lane. 

From  the  top  of  ihe  lane,  finding  its  way  out  of  the 
side  of  the  rising  ground,  to  the  bottom  where  it  emptied 
itself  into  the  ditch  on  the  main  road,  a  little  stream 
ambled;  chattering  prettily  over  the  pebbles  all  day  long. 
The  brambles  and  the  honeysuckle,  of  which  the  hedges 
at  either  side  were  mainly  composed,  grew  over  it;  dipped 
their  long  arms  in  its  shallows  and  made  dense  tunnels 
from  which  it  emerged  into  the  sunlight,  chattering  as 
ever — laughing  like  a  little  child. 

Pungently  smelling  thyme  and  straggling  watercress 
grew  luxuriantly  in  the  humid  ground  beside  this  little 
stream.  All  day  long  the  ducks  from  the  farm  paddled 
up  and  down  in  its  clear  and  sparkling  water.  The  sound 
of  their  beaks  gobbling  under  the  surface  of  the  stream 
and  the  incessant  humming  of  the  bees,  as  they  hurried 
from  one  honeysuckle  flower  to  another,  were  the  only 
sounds  that  rose  to  break  the  absorbing  stillness  of  that 
quiet  spot. 

30 


TRAFFIC.  21 

On  the  right-hand  side,  as  you  neared  the  top  of  the 
boreen,  an  old,  iron,  five-barred  gate,  swinging  laboriously 
on  its  rusty  hinges,  broke  the  uneven  line  of  hedge,  and 
gave  entrance  to  the  farm.  There,  in  an  open  square 
under  the  shadows  of  the  clump  of  trees,  bounded  on  one 
side  by  the  hedgerow,  and  on  the  other  three  by  the  farm- 
house itself  and  various  linneys  or  outhouses,  was  Nanno's 
birthplace — Nanno's  environment — where  Nanno  had  seen 
the  first  nineteen  years  of  her  life. 

The  farm-house  itself  was  a  long,  low,  one-storeyed 
building.  A  rough,  cobbled  path  ran  in  front  of  the  house 
past  the  kitchen  door  with  its  slab  stone  step,  and  ter- 
minated abruptly  in  the  soft,  yielding,  sandy  mud  of  the 
farm-yard.  The  kitchen-door  was  the  main,  in  fact,  the 
only  entrance;  the  kitchen  itself  the  living-room.  There 
was  no  parlor.  The  two  bedrooms  at  either  side  made  up 
the  entire  length  of  the  principal  building.  And  here 
John  Troy,  with  his  thirty  acres  and  ten  milch  cows,  his 
fields  of  pasture  and  his  corn  land,  had  made  a  comfort- 
able home — that  comfort,  poor  enough,  no  doubt,  in  com- 
parison with  the  English  farmer,  which  few  men  in  Ire- 
land are  able  to  offer  to  a  wife. 

Yet  all  this,  just  nineteen  years  before,  he  had  offered 
to  Bridget  Power,  and  the  circumstances  of  that  offering 
were  not  commonly  known  in  Eathmore.  In  point  of  fact 
there  was  only  one  man  besides  John  Troy  himself  who  was 
fully  aware  of  the  details  of  the  case,  and  that  was  Tim- 
othy Lovett,  the  sergeant  of  police.  How  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  circumstances  need  not  be  inquired  into. 
To  state  the  affair  simply,  as  it  occurred  those  nineteen 
years  before,  will  be  amply  sufficient. 

When  John  was  thirty-one  years  of  age,  old  Michael 
Troy,  his  father,  had  gone  to  his  rest.  There  had  been 
a  merry  wake.  The  dead  had  been  honored  by  a  well- 


22  TRAFFIC. 

attended  burial.  There  was  nothing  really  to  be  sad 
about.  Michael  had  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  and  if  the 
grief  of  some  of  the  mourners  was  alcoholic,  it  was  what 
one  would  have  expected — what  experience  teaches  one 
to  expect. 

Then  John  had  become  the  owner  of  the  farm,  and  from 
that  day  forward  was  looked  upon  in  the  village  as  a 
catch.  He  had  only  to  make  his  choice;  and — fate  orders 
these  things — that  choice  fell  on  Bridget  Power,  whose 
heart,  if  she  might  have  been  said  to  have  possessed  one, 
was  elsewhere.  John  was  a  simple  creature.  He  took 
his  refusal  in  silence,  and  brooded  over  it  with  his  pipe 
by  his  fireside.  The  parish  priest,  as  is  usual  in  these 
matters,  was  the  first  to  hear  of  it.  In  the  quiet  of  the 
confessional,  with  soft  and  unoffending  voice,  he  gently 
expostulated  with  Bridget.  It  would  obviously  be  of  bene- 
fit to  them  all,  the  priest  included,  if  she  gave  her  consent ; 
but  she  was  obdurate. 

The  pity  was  that  she  had  good  looks,  and  the  greater 
pity  that  she  knew  it.  But  perhaps  the  greatest  pity  of 
all  lay  in  the  fact  that  a  young  Englishman,  an  artist, 
staying  in  the  village,  became  passionately  aware  of  that 
prettiness  himself. 

Now  in  a  country  village  like  Eathmore,  where  one  may 
walk  the  wild  country  round — across  the  cliffs  or  over 
dreary  lowlands — without  meeting  a  soul,  tragedies  may 
be  played  and  lives  be  lost  without  anyone  being  a  whit 
the  wiser. 

And  so  it  happened  with  Bridget  Power  and  her  young 
English  lover.  They  used  to  wander  round  the  cliff  path 
at  night,  the  worn  footway  just  guiding  their  steps  in  the 
blackness,  the  swishing  of  the  sea  on  the  rocks  below  warn- 
ing them  of  their  proximity  to  the  chasms  beneath.  It 
made  no  matter  that  the  grass  and  the  sea  pinks  were 


TRAFFIC.  23 

sodden  with  dew;  that  the  whole  outlook  was  forbidding 
and  oppressive.  The  nights  were  black ;  they  needed  little 
else.  And  so  no  one  knew  of  it;  they  were  never  seen. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  her  hopes  soared  above  the  mere 
ardor  of  his  affections.  She  was  a  good-looking  girl — 
handsome  is  a  better  word.  Her  eyes  were  daring  in  those 
days  and  her  ambitions  daring  too.  She  had  once  been  in 
service  in  Lismore  with  a  family  who  also  possessed  a  house 
in  the  village  and  there,  though  she  had  tired  of  it  in  two 
years,  she  had  seen  fine  ladies — or  so  they  seemed  to  her — 
and  she  was  well  aware  that  pretty  clothes  would  go  far  to 
making  a  fine  lady  of  her,  though  not  perhaps  so  far  as 
she  imagined.  There  was  a  coarseness  in  her  brogue  that 
could  never  be  eradicated.  She  made  use  of  phrases  of 
speech  and  occasional  curses  that  jarred  the  man's  artistic 
mind.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  jar  the  mind  for  long  when 
the  blood  is  up  and  the  throat  is  dry.  The  remembrance 
may  come  afterwards.  It  came  afterwards  with  him,  and 
there  lay  the  fault  in  her  reckoning. 

She  had  given  way  to  him  in  almost  everything  and, 
with  her  simple  calculation,  it  seemed  that  to  yield  him 
all  would  be  to  gain  him  for  herself.  So  long  as  the 
world  swings  round  women  will  make  this  cruel  mistake. 
The  power  of  a  woman  lies  in  what  she  retains.  In  what 
she  yields,  there  lies  her  certain  misery  and  regret. 

There  came  the  day;  there  came  the  moment  of  com- 
plete oblivion  and  then  arose  the  awful  realization.  The 
chase  was  over ;  the  quarry  caught,  as  nature  had  intended, 
and  it  had  vainly  desired  to  be  caught.  But  that  Avas 
all.  Scarcely  a  moment  later,  she  realized  her  mistake; 
heard  it  in  the  simulation  of  his  voice  and  knew  that 
she  had  played  too  high ;  had  lost  an  irreplaceable  posses- 
sion to  find  a  curse  thrust  inevitably  into  her  life. 

The  one  memory  that  lingered  with  her  beyond  all  the 


24  TRAFFIC. 

breathless  moments  that  had  led  to  the  crisis,  was  her  first 
question  to  him  and  his  reply. 

"  Will  ye  come  out  again  to-morrow  night  ?  "  she  had 
asked;  and  with  that  forced,  feeble  simulation  of  enthu- 
siasm in  his  voice  he  had  answered : 

"  Yes — yes — of  course.  Well — I  don't  know.  We'll 
settle  that  in  the  morning.  I  ought  to  do  some  work  to- 
morrow." 

She  had  risen  from  the  damp  grass  and  looked  stonily 
away  across  the  headlands  to  the  open  sea.  Then  her 
tears  that  followed  had  been  prophetic.  He  thought  that 
she  was  crying  for  her  misdoing.  A  man  would  think 
like  that.  He  would  not  dream  of  supposing  that  her  de- 
sire was  only  to  bind  him  still  further.  Repentance  is  not 
consistent  in  connection  with  a  woman's  desire  to  win  a 
man.  She  regrets  nothing  until  she  has  bound  him  to  her. 
Bridget's  regret  lay  in  her  knowledge  that  she  had  failed. 
The  to-morrow  never  arrived  for  her.  She  had  guessed 
that ;  her  tears  had  prophesied  it.  When  the  next  day  came 
— he  had  gone. 

Even  then,  when  she  realized  the  utter  fruitlessness  of 
her  folly,  it  cannot  be  said  that  Bridget  regretted  her 
misdoing.  She  remained  proud  of  her  partial  conquest, 
but  her  disappointment  that  it  had  not  served  her  to 
further  ends  was  none  the  less  acute.  For  some  weeks 
after  the  artist  had  left  Rathmore  she  had  endeavored  to 
face  circumstances  with  a  bold  front.  The  villagers  had 
been  fully  aware  that  he  had  made  love  to  her;  but  of  the 
crisis  and  his  reasons  for  leaving  Rathmore  they  were  com- 
pletely ignorant.  And  so  for  those  first  few  weeks  she 
had  answered  all  their  questions  with  arrogant  audacity. 
She  tossed  her  head  and  her  eyes  were  just  as  daring  as 
ever,  so  that  if  there  had  been  any  suspicion  as  to  tha 
circumstances  of  the  case,  it  was  allayed. 


TRAFFIC.  25 

But  all  this  only  lasted  for  a  few  weeks.  For  a  few 
weeks  even  the  most  cowardly  amongst  us  can  snap  our 
fingers  in  the  face  of  Fate  and  whistle  a  tune  to  brave  the 
inevitable.  But  the  few  weeks  fly  by.  Then  a  night  comes 
without  sleep  and  the  end  is  at  hand.  In  the  morning 
the  back  of  our  conceit  is  broken. 

The  reckoning  had  to  be  counted.  She  knew  that  she 
was  trapped ;  trapped,  as  only  women  can  be,  by  that  pur- 
suing hand  of  Judgment,  which  is  seldom  concerned  with 
the  retribution  of  men,  but  fastens  itself  with  its  iron 
fingers  on  to  the  shoulders  of  the  woman  and  forces  her 
like  a  whipped  dog  to  the  ground. 

And  then  Bridget's  manner  changed.  First  she  became 
subdued  and  then  stricken  and,  upbraiding  her  again  in 
the  confessional,  the  parish  priest  showed  her  the  material 
heights  of  her  folly  in  not  taking  the  honest  hand  of  John 
Troy. 

"  Shure,  God  help  us,"  he  had  said  parenthetically, 
"  there  was  a  man  with  thurty  acres  of  good,  dacent  land 
and  a  fine  pot  o'  money  in  the  bank  at  Anesk.  How  do 
I  know?  Shure,  I  dined  with  the  manager  only  last 

week.  And  ye'd  lose  veer  head  to  that "  he  hesitated, 

"  that  Englishman,  who  doesn't  know  who  he  says  his 
prayers  to,  if  he  says  any  at  all.  Wisha,  God  help  us !  " 

For  a  moment  she  had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands, 
saying  nothing,  and  then,  with  that  presumptuous  daring 
which  could  not  entirely  be  eradicated,  she  had  asked : 

"  Like  is  it  too  late  now,  Father,  ye  mane  ?  " 

And  the  priest  had  said  nothing. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHATEVER  the  parish  priest  had  meant  by  his  silence, 
Bridget  interpreted  it  to  her  own  advantage  and,  from 
that  day  forward,  she  began  the  entanglement  of  John 
Troy.  A  simple  man,  such  as  he  was,  is  a  straw  in  the 
hands  of  a  woman  like  Bridget  Power.  She  had  lost 
none  of  her  good  looks;  if  at  all,  she  was  even  more 
attractive  and,  like  wheat  in  .the  hands  of  the  thrasher, 
he  was  turned  at  her  will. 

She  had  admitted  to  him  that  the  young  artist  had 
made  love  to  her.  She  had  tormented  and  encouraged  him 
by  the  admission  that  she  had  been  perfectly  contented 
that  he  should  do  so.  But  he  was  gone — and  so  what  did 
it  matter?  John  had  always  wanted  her;  he  could  have 
her.  She  was  his,  then,  from  that  moment  if  he  wished. 

John  sat  rigidly  on  the  low  stool  beside  his  fire  and 
pulled  heavily  at  his  pipe.  It  had  been  a  late  evening  in 
September  when  she  had  come  up  to  the  farm  for  a  can 
of  milk,  with  the  express  purpose  of  seeing  him  and  play- 
ing her  last  card. 

For  a  few  moments  he  had  kept  silence  and  then,  his 
eyes  wandering  to  the  direction  where  she  stood,  he  had 
watched  her  as  she  slowly  withdrew  a  handkerchief  from 
the  folds  of  her  bodice.  Had  he  known  that  she  was 
aware  of  his  watching;  had  he  known  that  the  action  itself 
was  premeditated  and  intentionally  delayed, 'he  might  have 
hesitated.  But  he  was  simple.  He  cared  little  then  that 

26 


TRAFFIC.  27 

there  had  been  others  who  had  made  love  to  her  and,  in 
that  moment,  he  made  up  his  mind. 

It  is  foolish  to  say  that  a  man  has  pride  when  he  de- 
sires. Pride  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  it.  John 
was  as  human  as  a  man  is  made  and  somewhat  simpler. 
He  took  her  for  what  she  was  worth  to  him  at  the  mo- 
ment— not  for  what  she  was.  All  that,  he  thought,  he 
had  calculated  before. 

And  then  they  were  married.  Bridget  was  able  to  walk 
through  the  village  with  her  head  once  more  erect,  and  her 
eyes  as  daring  as  ever.  It  mattered  little  to  her  who  saw 
her  at  Mass,  or  whispered  about  her  in  connection  with 
the  English  artist.  She  was  Mrs.  John  Troy,  and  there 
tvas  no  need  to  show  her  that  they  were  envious  of  her — one 
and  all. 

And  at  last,  when  the  festivities  of  the  wedding  were 
over,  she  told  John  Troy  the  truth.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  her  mind  as  to  the  issue.  He  might  curse  her  if  he 
chose,  and  that  she  expected;  but  it  would  go  no  further 
than  that.  He  was  too  quiet,  too  simple-minded  to  do 
more  and,  what  was  nearer  to  the  point  in  her  calculations, 
his  nature  could  not  afford  to  lose  her. 

The  calculation  was  correct.  She  had  made  her  books 
to  balance.  John  Troy  did  not  even  curse.  He  sat  on 
the  three-legged  stool  by  the  fire,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  and  said  nothing.  If  the  truth  must  be  known, 
he  had  guessed  it;  guessed  it  with  that  almost  feminine 
intuition,  which  frequently  comes  to  a  man  in  these  mat- 
ters. Had  she  told  him  before  their  marriage,  it  would 
really  have  made  no  difference.  It  was  no  unexpected  con- 
fession on  her  part.  She  may  have  thought  she  was 
courageous,  even  noble-minded,  in  telling  him  so  openly — 
but  he  had  known  it  all  the  time.  He  could  never  have 
brought  himself  to  do  without  her,  either  before  their  wed- 


28  TRAFFIC. 

ding  or  after.  She  had  judged  him  well  on  that  score. 
But  he  knew ;  and  there  lay  the  basis  of  the  way  in  which 
he  had  accepted  her  admission.  She  might  pride  herself 
on  her  honesty,  but  here,  there  was  no  cause  for  pride. 
Nothing  could  have  altered  the  fact  that  he  had  needed 
her;  nothing  could  have  prevented  him  from  taking  the 
opportunity  of  satisfying  that  need.  If  there  were  to  bo 
disaster,  it  would  follow  afterwards,  when  that  need  was 
supplied. 

And  so,  when  Nanno  was  born,  he  never  contradicted 
the  general  belief  that  she  was  his  child.  Bridget  had 
left  no  stone  unturned  to  hasten  the  wedding  after  the 
departure  of  the  English  artist,  so  that  suspicion  never 
arose.  For  the  first  few  years,  until  children  of  his  own 
were  brought  into  the  world,  John  Troy  never  spoke  to 
Nanno,  or  of  her,  unless  the  consideration  of  appearances 
made  it  compulsory. 

And  then  his  attitude  to  Nanno  changed.  It  was  not 
because  his  own  blood  had  been  established,  or  because  he 
saw  the  uselessness  of  raging  against  the  inevitable  fate. 
In  point  of  fact,  it  was  Bridget  herself  who  brought  about 
the  change.  So  long  as  Nanno  was  her  only  child,  she  had 
expended  upon  her  all  the  natural  affection  of  which  her 
nature  was  capable.  It  did  not  consist  of  much;  but  it 
was  sufficient  to  show  that  she  was  aware  of  her  responsi- 
bility without  exactly  having  any  sentiment  about  it.  Then 
came  Patsy,  the  first  boy.  She  preferred  boy  children  to 
girls,  if  the  matter  ever  called  for  preference  in  her  mind. 
And  after  Patsy,  Johnny  arrived;  then  any  affection  that 
she  had  ever  shown  to  Nanno  was  transferred  to  the  others. 
Nanno  was  ignored — Nanno  was  treated  with  contempt. 
All  the  worries  and  the  sins  of  the  household  were  expiated 
by  Nanno.  She  was  beaten;  she  was  abused;  and,  long 
before  her  little  body  was  physically  able,  she  was  forced 


TRAFFIC.  29 

to  do  work  about  the  farm  and  in  the  kitchen  which  was 
beyond  her  strength. 

The  first  time  the  fact  came  under  John's  notice  was 
when  he  discovered  her  alone  in  the  kitchen  endeavoring 
to  lift  a  large  pail  of  pigs'  food,  and  empty  its  contents 
into  the  cauldron,  where  it  was  to  be  boiled.  Like  an 
impregnable  wall  the  cauldron  raised  itself  some  inches 
above  her  head. 

For  a  moment  he  had  stood  and  watched  her  little  fig- 
ure, disjointed  by  the  strained  efforts  that  she  was  mak- 
ing; one  shoulder  dragged  down  by  the  excessive  weight, 
the  other  elevated  in  disproportionate  contortion,  as  a 
scale  that  has  no  counterbalance  to  its  load. 

"  Wisha,  ye  little  fool,"  he  had  said,  taking  the  bucket 
from  her  hand  and  with  one  motion  of  his  arm  lifting  it 
above  the  cauldron  and  emptying  its  contents  into  the 
already  steaming  mass. 

These  were  the  first  voluntary  words  that  he  had  ever 
spoken  to  her.  For  ten  years,  with  that  unswerving  per- 
sistence natural  to  his  race,  he  had  maintained  the  same 
attitude  towards  her.  He  had  been  wronged,  and  though 
many  another  man  would  have  vented  his  indignation  in 
more  violent  measures,  he  had  never  forgotten  it  until 
then. 

He  would  probably  have  remembered  it  and  returned 
to  his  same  attitude  again,  had  not  Bridget  at  that  moment 
entered  from  the  dairy. 

"  In  the  name  o'  God !  "  she  exclaimed,  seeing  what  he 
was  doing,  "  is  it  slopping  about  in  the  kitchen  ye  are  now, 
instead  o'  tendin'  ye're  own  business  ?  " 

"  Shure  the  choild's  not  shtrong  enough  to  be  liftin' 
thim  things,"  he  replied  quietly.  "  If  ye  want  a  girrl  to 
help,  why  don't  ye  say  so  ?  " 

Bridget  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 


30  TRAFFIC. 

"  Glory  be  to  God !  Not  shtrong  enough  ?  That 
choild?  Faith,  ye're  getting  moighty  considheration  out 
of  yeerself.  Go  an'  fill  the  bucket  again,  Nanno —  an' 
doant  be  shtandin'  shtarin'  at  him." 

"  I'll  fill  the  bucket  meself,"  said  John,  carrying  it  out 
of  the  room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone  Bridget  had  approached  Nanno 
menacingly;  then  had  followed  the  thud  of  her  blow  on 
the  child's  head,  as  she  drove  her  out  of  the  kitchen  to 
feed  the  chickens  in  the  yard. 

After  this  day,  whenever  he  could,  John  helped  her  with 
the  laborious  work  that  had  been  set  for  her  to  do.  When- 
ever he  could  escape  from  the  house  without  being  seen, 
he  would  follow  her  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  or  the 
faint  light  of  the  early  morning,  and  assist  her  in  the 
bringing  in  of  the  cows.  At  these  times  her  gray  eyes 
would  watch  him  wonderingly,  and  at  first  neither  he  nor 
Nanno  could  understand  this  gradual  change.  They  both 
marveled  at  it  in  their  different  ways ;  but  when  one  even- 
ing, as  they  were  driving  home  the  cows  to  be  milked, 
he  had  bent  down  and  taken  her  little  hand  in  his,  there 
had  seemed  no  further  need  for  explanation — both  were 
satisfied. 

Of  the  circumstances  of  her  birth.  Nanno  had  never 
been  told;  but  this  was  through  no  special  desire  of  her 
mother's.  Many  times,  since  their  hostility  to  each  other 
had  first  commenced,  Bridget  had  had  it  on  the  tip  of 
her  tongue  to  hurl  the  fact  in  the  face  of  the  unoffending 
child.  Frequently,  however,  in  speaking  to  her  husband  of 
Nanno,  she  would  make  no  endeavor  to  refer  reticently  io 
the  illegitimacy  of  her  birth. 

"'Tis  aiqual  to  the  deuce  what  that  young  bastard  be 
doin' ! "  she  had  exclaimed  one  day  in  a  fit  of  rage  to  her 
husband. 


TRAFFIC.  31 

John  Troy  stood  up  in  righteous  anger  and  ran  his 
horny  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"  D'ye  mind  this,"  he  said  warningly,  "  ye  ungrateful 
woman,  ye !  When  I  married  ye,  an'  faith,  'twas  a  damned 
queer  thing  to  do — I  was  afther  makin'  that  choild  me 
own;  an'  by  God — if  I  hear  ye  tellin'  her  or  anvone  else 
that  she's  not  my  choild  bi  the  law — by  God,  I'll  break 
yeer  head  open — I  will  so  !  " 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Bridget  had  been  afraid 
of  her  husband,  and  she  had  said  no  more.  She  did  not 
abate  her  cruel  treatment  to  Xanno;  in  fact,  the  child 
suffered  the  more  in  private  from  the  wrath  that  conse- 
quently descended  upon  her  shoulders;  but  she  curbed  her 
inclination  to  shame  her  as  had  often  been  her  intention 
before. 

And  so,  even  at  nineteen  years  of  age,  no  word  of  her 
birth  had  reached  Xanno's  ears;  yet  the  mark  of  it  was 
stamped  indelibly  in  her  face.  The  hand  of  misfortune 
had  already  molded  the  expression  of  her  mouth;  there 
was  fatality  in  the  color  of  her  lips.  The  desire  of  men  was 
bound  to  turn  to  them.  Even  her  eyes  seemed  shadowed 
with  that  trouble  and  disaster  which  had  attended  her  life 
from  its  very  birth.  She  had,  in  fact,  received  but  few, 
indeed,  of  her  mother's  characteristics.  Where  she  did 
not  resemble  her  father,  her  nature  seemed  to  have  absorbed 
that  spirit  of  sensuousness  which  had  dominated  her  par- 
ents in  their  intimacy.  It  had  not  as  yet  developed  itself 
in  her  manner;  there  was  no  shadow  of  it,  even  in  her 
thoughts.  But  the  seductive  charm  of  it  was  there,  ap- 
parent in  her  face. 

There  is  no  doubt  about- the  sins  of  the  fathers  falling 
upon  the  generation  in  the  case  of  an  illegitimate  child. 
No  book  has  ever  been  written,  no  law  has  ever  been 
made — there  is  not  one  dissentient  voice  in  the  chorus  of 


32  TRAFFIC. 

rebuke,  not  one  hand  to  help  or  one  lamp  to  lead  the 
way,  when  a  love-child  is  cast  into  the  world.  There  must 
be  thousands  of  these  nameless,  ocean  tramps  cast  away  on 
the  broad  sea  of  existence;  overloaded,  until  their  water- 
line  has  vanished,  with  their  cargoes  of  the  world's  con- 
tempt and  their  own  shame.  No  port  is  home  to  them ; 
no  roadstead,  but  which  is  too  deep  for  them  to  use  their 
fragile  anchors  of  hope.  They  must  ride  the  seas  until 
they  sink,  and  the  waters  close  over  them — forgotten,  dis- 
regarded— but  at  rest. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

So  it  was  that  Xanno  was  different  from  her  class.  Her 
mother  saw  it.  The  consciousness  of  it  at  times  irritated 
her  unreasonably.  Whenever  she  observed  a  refinement  of 
sentiment  in  iSTanno,  she  would  ridicule  it  with  native  sar- 
casm; but  she  was  well  aware  of  its  derivation.  There 
were  times  when  something  that  Nanno  did  would  call 
vividly  to  her  mind  the  remembrance  of  her  lover,  and  then 
her  anger  would  rise  at  the  recollection  of  her  failure 
and  his  desertion. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  characteristics  of  her  father  that 
ISTanno  possessed — there  was  no  small-mindedness,  no  cow- 
ardice, in  her  nature — but  rather  his  mannerisms  and  that 
delicacy  of  feeling  which  only  education  and  inheritance 
can  bring  with  them. 

There  were  many  times  when  Bridget  could  see,  despite 
herself,  that  Nanno  would  be  susceptible  to  the  slightest 
refining  influence;  that  she  would  soon  find  her  foothold 
in  better  surroundings;  but  all  this  only  rankled  in  her 
mind  the  more. 

When  she  returned  that  evening  with  the  cows;  when 
the  gate  had  shut,  and,  following  the  indolent  beasts, 
ISTanno  had  come  into  the  farm-yard,  where  a  ray  of  light 
from  the  east  had  fallen  through  the  trees  and  lit  up  her 
face;  Bridget,  who  was  waiting  in  the  doorway,  had  seen 
again  that  difference,  that  aloofness  to  her  surroundings 
in  her  which  nothing  could  eradicate.  And  seeing  it,  her 
temper  overcame  her. 

3  33 


34  TRAFFIC. 

"'Tis  fine  and  late  ye  are.  What's  been  happenin'  ye 
in  the  name  o'  God  ?  " 

Her  voice  sounded  rawkish  in  the  still  air  of  the  even- 
ing and,  because  of  the  silence  that  followed  her  question, 
the  rawkishness  was  intensified. 

Nanno  stood  watching  the  cattle  as  by  instinct  they 
found  their  way  to  their  stalls  in  the  shed  on  the  other 
side  of  the  yard. 

"  Is  it  dumb  ye're  gettin'  ?  "  insisted  Bridget — "  what's 
been  happenin'  ye  to  be  so  late  ?  An'  I  af ther  comin'  back 
from  Anesk  this  half-hour." 

"'Twas  one  o'  the  Fennels  talkin'  to  her  down  in  the 
field  below." 

This  information  was  volunteered  in  a  simple  fashion 
by  Johnny.  If  he  had  any  reason  at  all  for  giving  it, 
it  was  pride  that  one  of  the  Fennels — a  greatly  respected 
family  in  Kathmore — should  speak  with  his  sister.  He 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  effect  produced  by  his  state- 
ment. 

The  blood  stole  into  ISTanno's  face. 

"  'Twas  not  one  of  the  Fennels,  Johnny ! "  she  said 
quickly.  "  I've  never  seen  the  gentleman  before." 

Bridget  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  'Tis  like  he's  stayin'  wid  the  Fennels  thin,"  he  as- 
serted, in  proof  of  his  statement.  "  Shure  I've  seen  him 
out  wid  them  in  the  boat." 

"  Maybe  'tis  Mr.  Jerningham — whatever  ye  call  him. 
'Tis  a  friend  of  theirs  stayin'  from  England." 

It  was  Bridget  who  suggested  this.  For  the  moment 
her  native  curiosity  had  got  the  better  of  her  wrath.  It 
was  the  natural  instinct,  common  to  all  her  race,  to  locate 
a  personality.  The  moment  that  she  had  satisfied  herself 
in  this,  the  remembrance  of  her  anger  returned. 

"Shure,  what  the  deuce  do  ye  want  to  be  wastin'  yeer 


TRAFFIC.  35 

time  talkin'  to  him,  an'  he  only  makin'  a  fool  o'  ye? 
Patsy ! " — she  turned  round  and  called  the  name  into  the 
kitchen — "  come  an'  take  some  o'  the  cows ;  an'  Nanno, 
ye  go  down  the  street  to  Crowley's.  Tell  him  to  sind  up 
a  sack  o'  coals  and  get  six-pennorth  o'  candles." 

"  Don't  ye  want  me  to  do  the  milkin'  ?  " 

"  I  do  not— glory  be  to  God,  wouldn't  I  tell  ye  if  I  did? 
Tell  him  to  charge  them  in  the  bill." 

Nanno  walked  quietly  down  the  cobbled  path  and  passed 
through  the  five-barred  gate  into  the  lane.  The  silence 
of  her  obedience  almost  exasperated  Bridget.  She  often 
wished  the  girl  would  rebel,  that  she  might  give  full  vent 
to  the  embittered  rage  which  seemed  almost  to  dominate 
her  thoughts  of  this  illegitimate  child  of  hers.  Nanno  was 
a  thorn  in  her  side.  The  mere  sight  of  her  frequently 
called  forth  Bridget's  spleen.  As  year  by  year  Nanno  de- 
veloped, and  Bridget  became  older,  the  mother  grew  the 
more  to  hate  the  daughter.  It  was  her  folly  staring  her 
in  the  face ;  her  failure  gloating  over  her  discomfiture.  No 
one  knew  of  it  certainly,  but  it  robbed  her  of  the  upper 
hand  over  her  husband;  it  robbed  her  of  the  power  that 
her  nature  craved. 

And  Nanno,  unconscious  of  all  this,  only  aggravated  it 
by  her  unconsciousness.  She  aggravated  it  by  her  silence 
as  she  passed  out  into  the  lane,  but  she  was  unaware  of  it. 
Everything  she  did,  was  with  that  same  degree  of  quiet- 
ness. She  was  a  fatalist  in  almost  every  action,  though 
the  word  destiny  or  its  equivalents  had  never  entered  into 
her  vocabulary. 

The  evening  was  falling  fast  and  the  shadows  of  the 
trees  were  heavy  and  gray  as  she  made  her  way  down  the 
lane  to  the  main  road.  She  could  hear  the  stream  be- 
tween the  noise  of  her  footfalls,  but  its  chattering  seemed 
imbued  with  the  neutral  tones  of  the  evening  and  the  still- 


36  TRAFFIC. 

ness  of  the  air.  Its, rippling  was  subdued  and  hushed,  as 
though  it  moved  in  sleep;  but  though  she  heard  it,  Nanno 
noticed  nothing.  She  did  not  see  that  the  fields  which  had 
been  steeped  in  gold  were  then  washed  with  gray ;  that  the 
hedges  which  had  stood  out  in  blackness  against  the  light, 
were  now  beginning  to  lose  their  outlines,  to  hide  them- 
selves in  the  sky. 

Something  that  Bridget  had  said  to  her  had  blunted 
her  observation.  The  words  were  hanging  in  her  mind  as 
a  catching  tune  hangs  in  the  reluctant  ear.  "  Shure,  what 
the  deuce  do  ye  want  to  be  wastin'  yeer  time  talkin'  to 
him,  an'  he  only  makin'  a  fool  o'  ye  ?  " 

How  had  he  tried  to  make  a  fool  of  her?  She  could 
not  remember  anything  he  had  said,  which  was  not  quite 
ordinary  and  commonplace,  except  the  question  he  had 
asked  her  which  she  had  not  perfectly  understood.  She 
knew  what  sort  of  a  fool  her  mother  alluded  to ;  but  their 
conversation  had  contained  very  little  more  than  the  mere 
passing  of  the  time  of  day.  It  seemed  to  her,  in  summing 
up  the  matter  in  her  mind,  that  her  mother's  thoughts  ran 
too  easily  to  that  conclusion  concerning  men  and  women. 
Nanno  had  often  heard  her  say  it  before  of  others,  And 
so,  at  this  point,  she  dismissed  the  question  from  her,  in- 
voluntarily turning  to  her  conversation  with  Jerningham. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  that  was  his  name. 
She  had  never  known  her  mother  to  fail  by  her  adroit 
questions  in  discovering  .the  identity  of  a  new-comer  to 
the  village.  Nanno  did  not  possess  that  curiosity  herself. 
It  was  another  respect  in  which  Bridget  had  noticed  her  re- 
semblance to  her  father. 

Mr.  Jerningham,  then,  was  an  Englishman.  She  had 
a  natural  distaste  for  the  classification.  Her  father,  John 
Troy,  disliked  Englishmen.  He  said,  "  They're  so  deuced 
ehure  o'  things  they  know  nothin'  whativer  about." 


TRAFFIC.  37 

She  was  convinced  that  that  was  quite  true,  and  that 
it  applied  to  this  man  as  well  as  to  the  rest.  But  his 
voice  was  quiet  and  that  had  appealed  to  her.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  jarred  by  the  voices  of  those  around  her. 
Contact  with  them  from  her  birth  had  made  that  impos- 
sible. But  nevertheless,  her  ear  was  naturally  trained  to 
the  refinement  of  a  voice — a  reed  of  nature  tuned  by  God 
to  the  whispering  of  every  wind.  When  he  had  called  out 
after  her,  "  I'll  have  greater  respect  for  rabbits  in  future," 
she  had  found  herself  drawing  inferences  on  his  character 
from  the  way  he  spoke.  With  this  remembrance  she  began 
to  wonder  whether  he  would  speak  to  her  as  he  had  done 
if  they  happened  to  meet  again.  Why  had  he  spoken  to 
her  at  all  ? 

That  was  a  question  which  only  her  instinct  could  an- 
swer and,  in  such  a  case,  instinct  never  fails  a  woman.  It 
seldom  fails  a  man.  It  may  be  only  a  glance,  a  hurried 
look,  a  word,  a  thing  of  the  moment ;  it  may  be  in  crowded 
traffic  or  in  a  lonely  lane,  but  the  instinct  that  detects  it 
is  infallible.  There  is  underlying  in  human  nature  an 
ability  to  perceive  its  power  of  fascination  over  another, 
that  is  as  keen  as  the  instinct  to  pursue  the  trail  of  its 
prey  in  the  nature  of  an  animal.  A  woman  may  glance 
at  a  man  in  the  hurrying  of  a  crowd,  and  the  mind  of  the 
man  becomes  exultant  with  the  knowledge  of  his  command 
over  her.  A  man  may  look  at  a  woman  in  the  silence  of  a 
church,  and  the  heart  of  that  woman  beats  with  pride  at 
the  knowledge  of  the  power  that  is  hers. 

Xanno  knew  why  he  had  spoken  to  her.  She  did  not 
reason  it  out ;  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  women  to  do  these 
things.  They  understand  a  matter  without  knowing  why. 
Nanno  understood  why  Jerningham  had  spoken  to  her — the 
thought  of  it  brought  a  sense  of  warmth  to  her  face — but 


38  TRAFFIC. 

she  could  have  given  no  definite  reasons  for  her  compre- 
hension. 

And  so  she  made  her  way  to  the  village,  allowing  her 
thoughts  to  be  absorbed  by  the  trifling  incident  of  her 
meeting  with  Philip  Jerningham ;  absorbed,  because  it  had 
been  magnified  in  her  mind  by  her  mother's  retort  that 
he  was  endeavoring  to  make  a  fool  of  her. 

By  the  time  she  had  reached  the  main  street  the  gloom 
had  finally  set  in.  The  row  of  cottages  on  either  side 
were  lost  in  the  gray,  and  the  roofs  were  hardly  distinguish- 
able against  the  sky.  A  patch  of  warm,  yellow  lamplight 
fell  from  the  window  of  Hannah  Foley's  little  china-shop 
on  to  the  whitewashed  wall  of  the  next  house.  The  shadow 
of  the  window-frame  divided  it  sharply  in  two.  A  glimmer 
of  light  pierced  its  way  out  of  Willoughby's  public-house. 
Through  the  door  of  Julia  Quinn's  cottage  the  flushed  light 
of  a  fire  found  points  of  reflection  in  every  polished  sur- 
face in  the  room.  She  could  see  Mary  Quinn,  the  young- 
est girl,  turning  the  bellows  wheel;  the  warm  light  of  the 
glowing  cinders  deepening  the  color  of  her  cheeks.  Her 
head  was  on  one  side  and  she  hummed  a  tune  as  she  turned 
the  wheel  Everything  was  intensely  quiet.  A  man  down 
the  street  struck  a  match  to  light  his  pipe  and  the  scratch- 
ing sound  reached  her  ears;  then  as  he  sheltered  it  in  his 
hands  the  profile  of  his  face  was  lit  up  with  orange. 

As  she  reached  Crowley's  shop,  the  universal  provision 
store  of  Eathmore,  a  rough  burst  of  laughter  from  inside 
reached  her  ears.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  She  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  the  man  who  had  laughed.  Jamesy 
Eyan  was  often  to  be  seen  in  Eathmore,  though  he  lived 
on  his  farm  in  Glenlickey,  some  five  miles  away.  And 
'Jamesy  Eyan  brought  a  shuddering  sense  of  disgust  into 
Nanno's  mind  whenever  she  saw  him.  For  some  time 
past,  whenever  they  met — in  the  street  of  the  village  or 


TRAFFIC.  39 

coming  away  from  Mass — he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to 
show  her  such  attentions  as  would  be  calculated  to  express 
his  admiration  for  her.  To  those  who  did  not  understand 
them,  those  forms  of  attention  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  horse-play.  They  were  rough,  uncouth,  ill-mannered 
at  times.  But  to  girls  of  her  own  class,  and  to  ISTanno  her- 
self, they  were  unmistakable.  Jamesy  Evan  had  her  in 
his  eye,  as  they  might  have  said  in  those  parts. 

He  was  typical  of  most  Irish  farming  life.  His  face 
was  round  and  utterly  devoid  of  any  expression,  save  a 
cunning  little  look  here  or  a  humorous  wink  there.  Be- 
yond that  it  was  a  face  as  expressionless  as  dough  in  the 
hands  of  a  baker.  It  was  the  unhealthy  purple  of  his 
skin — like  many  of  the  men  in  that  district,  he  was  clean- 
shaven— that  spoke  more  plainly  for  his  character  than 
any  lack  of  animation  or  want  of  intelligence. 

He  was  vastly  different  to  Crowley,  the  owner  of  the 
small  shop  to  whom  he  was  talking  as  Nanno  entered 
after  her  momentary  pause.  Crowley  was  a  man,  who 
seemed  to  have  no  blood  in  him  at  all;  rather  some  thin, 
oleaginous  liquid  that  toiled  slowly  through  his  veins  and 
feebly  lit  an  interest  in  his  eyes.  Yet  his  face  too  was 
round;  round  in  that  flabby  way  which  one  would  expect 
to  become  elliptical  if  placed  in  any  other  position  on  his 
shoulders.  He  was  seldom  if  ever  seen  outside  the  pre- 
cincts of  his  shop.  There  was  the  air  he  breathed  from  one 
year  to  another;  an  atmosphere  laden  with  the  odors  of 
stale  edibles  and  all  unwholesomeness.  Like  a  parasite  he 
moved  in  and  out  amongst  his  kegs  of  butter,  barrels  of 
salted  fish,  and  dried  pigs'  heads;  unhealthy — unclean — 
yet  with  the  great  cleansing  Atlantic  not  more  than  two 
hundred  yards  from  his  door. 

Nanno  approached  the  counter  with  her  head  averted 
from  the  two  men  and  opened  her  transactions  with  Mrs. 


40  TRAFFIC. 

Crowley  who,  in  a  filthy  pink  dressing-gown,  was  labor- 
iously making  up  accounts. 

"  Good  evenin',  Nanno,"  she  said ;  then  looking  down  at 
her  attire,  she  laughed  stupidly  with  assumed  embarrass- 
ment. "  Ye're  afther  catchin'  me  in  me  dressing-gown." 

This  remark  was  made  without  exception  to  every  cus- 
tomer, and  the  same  people  had  heard  it  again  and  again. 
There  followed  no  effort  on  her  part  to  change  the  cos- 
tume. She  did  not  even  offer  to  get  it  washed. 

Nanno  volunteered  no  reply.  She  was  too  engrossed  in 
the  thought  of  finishing  her  purchases  and  escaping  from 
the  presence  of  Jamesy  Kyan.  But  escape  was  made  im- 
possible. Directly  he  saw  her,  he  made  his  way  down  the 
shop  and  leaned  over  the  counter  by  her  side,  professing 
to  take  a  great  interest  in  all  that  she  required.  He  gazed 
up  into  her  face  with  those  small,  cunning  eyes  of  his,  but 
for  the  first  few  moments  said  nothing.  It  was  one  of  his 
ways  of  showing  admiration. 

But  to  Nanno,  that  admiration  brought  only  the  sense 
of  loathsome  foreboding.  A  woman  always  knows  when 
Fate  is  following  her.  Again  and  again  through  her  life 
she  will  see  the  shadow  of  that  Fate  falling  slant-wise  in 
grotesque  silhouettes  upon  the  ground.  It  is  seldom  more 
than  once  that  the  shadow  of  good  fortune  ever  crosses  her 
path. 

Whenever  she  met  Jamesy  Ryan  the  shadow  of  her  Fate 
lay  like  a  fantastic  symbol  before  Nanno's  eyes  and  dogged 
her  footsteps  as  she  walked.  Invariably,  prompted  by  her 
instinct,  she  avoided  it;  but  the  instinct  was  not  strong 
enough  to  predict  in  actual  words  the  future  that  she 
feared. 

As  soon  as  her  purchases  were  complete,  she  left  the  shop, 
saying  good-night  to  Mrs.  Crowley  and  vaguely  including 
the  others  in  her  departure. 


TRAFFIC.  41 

"  She's  a  damned  fine  girrl !  "  exclaimed  Jamesy  Ryan, 
giving  expression  at  length  to  his  pent-up  admiration. 

"  Shure,  fine  is  it  ?  "  simpered  Mrs.  Crowley.  "  Her 
eyes  wasn't  made  for  the  good  of  her  soul,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  She's  a  damned  fine  girrl !  "  was  all  that  Kyan  could 
say  and,  after  one  or  two  restless  movements,  he  left  the 
shop,  as  though  some  unseen  force  were  dragging  him 
against  his  will. 

Nanno  had  gone  no  more  than  a  few  hundred  paces  up 
the  street,  when  she  heard  footsteps  hurrying  after  her. 
It  would  have  been  impossible  to  deceive  her.  She  knew 
who  it  was.  One  quick  little  breath  she  drew  in  and 
then,  without  looking  round,  increased  her  pace.  But  it 
was  quite  useless;  before  she  had  passed  the  pump  out- 
side Hannah  Foley's  little  china-shop,  Jamesy  Ryan  came 
abreast  with  her. 

"  Ye  take  mighty  little  notice  of  a-  fella,"  he  said,  un- 
consciously fitting  in  his  step  with  hers. 

"  'Tis  the  way  I  was  in  a  hurry,"  said  Nanno  uncom- 
fortably. 


.auiy. 

Is  it  goin'  home  ye  are  ?  " 
I  am." 


"  Faith,  I'm  goin'  up  the  road  too." 

And  so  he  accompanied  her  until  they  reached  Troy's 
Lane. 

There  in  the  darkness  Nanno  stopped. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  coldly. 

She  was  just  turning  away  when  Jamesy  followed  her. 

"Begob,  I'll  come  up  to  the  house  wid  ye,"  he  said. 
"  'Tis  mighty  dark." 

At  the  five-barred  gate  she  tried  again  to  shake  him  off. 
She  dreaded  lest  her  mother  should  see  her  with  him. 

"  'Tis  good-night  now,  thin,"  she  said  lightly  with  a 
forced  smile. 


42  TRAFFIC. 

He  took  no  notice  of  that. 

"Why  don't  ye  come  up  dancing  at  the  cross  these 
nights  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Shure,  I  don't  have  a  mind  for  it,  and  that's  the  way 
with  me." 

He  quietly  moved  a  step  nearer  to  her. 

"  I  wouldn't  moind  havin'  me  arrm  round  yeer  waist/' 
he  said  sensuously. 

She  shuddered. 

"  Maybe  I  wouldn't  like  it  myself,"  she  said  warmly. 

"  Bi  God,  then— how's  this  for  it  now?  " 

Before  she  could  resist  him  he  had  flung  his  arm  round 
her,  and  held  her  there,  laughing  with  excitement  and  de- 
fiance into  her  face. 

She  wrenched  herself  free  of  him;  but  not  before  his 
fingers  had  felt  the  softness  of  her  flesh  beneath  the  home- 
spun bodice.  Then  the  gate  opened  swiftly  to  her  hand 
and  she  left  him  there  in  the  darkness,  chuckling  at  his 
success  and  her  discomfiture. 

Her  manner  was  excited  and  distraught  as  she  sat  down 
to  her  tea.  The  others  had  finished  their  meal  and  were 
sitting  round  the  fire.  She  said  nothing  to  them;  but 
then,  as  she  raised  the  cup  to  her  lips,  her  sleeve  caught 
the  edge  of  her  saucer  and  knocked  it  on  to  the  ground, 
where  it  broke  in  two  pieces. 

Bridget  broke  into  loud  laughter. 

"  Glory  be  to  God  !  Nanno's  going  to  be  married,"  she 
exclaimed,  echoing  the  superstition  of  the  country-side. 

"  Nanno's  going  to  be  married ! "  caught  up  Johnny  in 
his  deep  treble. 

And  Kanno,  bending  down  to  pick  up  the  pieces,  shud- 
dered as  she  had  done  before. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LIFE  in  Rathmore  had  but  one  relaxation  in  the  year: 
the  day  of  the  Pattern  and  the  two  or  three  days  follow- 
ing, when  the  anniversary  of  the  Patron  Saint  was  kept 
as  a  feast  day,  and  all  work  was  suspended.  Not  that  life 
there  was  particularly  strenuous.  It  really  needed  no  re- 
laxation at  all.  Tending  the  land  or  fishing  the  sea  was 
not  permitted  on  Sunday.  The  parish  priest  was  strict 
about  that.  Only  when  the  weather  threatened  the  crops, 
or  a  big  school  of  fish  came  into  the  bay,  then  was  dispen- 
sation granted  on  the  Sabbath ;  then  the  nets  were  allowed 
to  be  cast  or  the  corn  cut  and  stacked. 

But  on  the  Pattern  day,  no  matter  whether  it  rained  for 
twenty-four  hours  or  the  bay  was  alive  with  fish,  you 
could  get  no  one  to  work.  Rathmore  on  that  day  was  at 
play.  The  ever-youthful  child  in  us  must  have  its  holi- 
day ;  the  Irishman  his  saint's  day. 

And  it  was  not  without  its  benefits,  that  patron  day  of 
St.  Daeclan.  Every  cottage,  small  or  large,  was  given 
its  coat  or  so  of  whitewash  or  pinkwash,  as  the  case  might 
be,  with  the  result  that  Rathmore  was  one  of  the  cleanest 
of  villages  in  the  county  of  Waterford.  Saint  Daeclan 
was  responsible  for  it  all ;  and  considering  that  cleanliness 
in  Ireland  is  no  small  matter — unless  it  be  in  the  existence 
of  it — the  holy  man  was  by  no  means  so  vivid  a  personality 
to  the  country  folk  as  one  would  have  expected.  True, 
they  called  their  children  after  him ;  but  then,  in  a  temper- 
ance hall  which  had  been  erected  on  the  cliff,  they  put  up 

43 


44  TRAFFIC. 

a  plaster  statue  of  St.  Patrick,  whose  brown  beard  they 
made  gray  with  judicious  applications  of  paint  from  the 
pot.  Him,  they  called  St.  Daeclan,  and  the  country  people 
who  looked  in  on  their  way  to  the  holy  well  said,  "  Ah, 
shure,  'tis  just  like  the  good  man — indeed  it  is."  And, 
seeing  that  he  was  their  patron  saint,  they  ought  to  have 
known  better.  But  they  did  not.  There  were  few  of  them 
indeed  who  knew  the  story  of  the  saint's  life,  excepting 
Shaughnessy,  who  took  charge  of  the  ruins  of  the  round 
tower;  and  his  acquaintance  with  it,  seeing  that  it  became 
a  stock-in-trade  which  he  repeated  to  various  visitors,  was 
not  so  deeply  to  be  respected. 

Nevertheless,  he  certainly  was  one  man  in  Rathmore  to 
whom  St.  Daeclan  was  a  living  personality.  And  Nanno 
was  another.  She  never  questioned  that  the  good  man  had 
dried  up  the  River  Blackwater  in  the  valley  that  runs 
between  Anesk  and  Eathmore,  because  he  had  thrice  been 
refused  a  salmon  by  a  greedy  fisherman.  It  never  occurred 
to  her  to  disbelieve  that ;  for  some  act  of  disobedience,  he 
had  turned  a  man  to  stone  in  the  cornfields  that  fronted 
the  sea  above  the  mile  of  strand.  If  she  herself  did  not 
understand  the  means  and  ways  of  such  deeds,  God,  by 
whose  hand  they  had  been  accomplished,  was  almighty. 
She  was  perfectly  contented  to  accept  them  from  that 
standpoint. 

Since  all  the  habitations  in  Rathmore  are  whitewashed 
in  readiness  for  this  great  event,  it  is  easily  understood 
that  the  preparations  are  almost  as  important  as  the 
function  itself.  For  a  week  beforehand  every  cottage  be- 
gins to  wear  a  clean  face.  It  is  as  though  a  lot  of  chil- 
dren were  being  set  in  tidiness  to  go  before  the  bishop  for 
their  confirmation.  Carts  begin  to  come  into  the  village, 
and  the  climax  of  excitement  is  reached  when  the  traveling 
show  arrives  and  begins  to  set  up  its  swings. 


TRAFFIC.  45 

About  a  week  after  her  encounter  with  Jamesy  Ryan, 
and  three  days  before  the  eventful  Pattern,  Xanno  had  been 
sent  down  to  the  village  on  an  errand  of  Bridget's.  With 
all  the  rest  of  Rathmore,  she  expected  company  on  the  Pat- 
tern da}T.  Relations  came  from  far  and  near,  some  travel- 
ing so  much  as  thirty  or  forty  miles  with  the  intention 
of  seeing  their  kith  and  kin,  making  their  rounds  of  the 
Holy  Well,  and  sharing  in  the  delights  of  the  village. 

Provisions,  therefore,  had  to  be  stocked,  and  Xanno  was 
sent  down  to  Crowley's  to  procure  them.  As  she  turned 
the  corner  which  opened  the  street  before  her,  she  was  sur- 
prised to  see  a  crowd  of  young  girls  collected  round  the  door 
of  Hannah  Foley's  little  shop.  For  a  moment  she  stopped. 
There  was  something  determined  in  their  attitudes  that 
impressed  her.  She  wondered  what  they  were  waiting  for. 
Could  some  one  inside  be  ill?  At  last  curiosity  prompted 
her  to  go  on.  Xone  of  them  noticed  her  approach.  Their 
eyes  were  all  fixed  on  the  interior  of  the  shop. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  approaching  one  of  them. 

The  girl  looked  round  stolidly.  She  was  not  more  than 
seventeen  years  old;  in  fact,  their  ages,  all  the  thirteen 
girls,  ranged  between  fifteen  and  twenty-two. 

"  'Tis  Nancy  Foley,"  she  said,  and  then  she  looked  back 
again  into  the  shop.  Xanno  followed  her  glance  and  there, 
she  saw  the  girl  alluded  to  standing  by  the  portal  of  an 
inner  door,  her  face  in  the  angle  of  her  arm,  sobbing  bit- 
terly. 

"  What's  happened  her  ?  "  Xanno  persisted. 

"  'Tis  the  way  she's  a /'  said  the  other  in  a  whisper. 

"  She  hev  a  choild — an'  she  not  married.  Glory  be  to 
God — the  shame  of  her !  "  Horror  entered  her  voice  with 
these  last  words. 

"  But  what  are  ye  waitin'  here  for  ?  " 

"  To  turn  her  out." 


46  TRAFFIC. 

"Where?" 

"  Out  of  Rathmore.     Is  it  shamin'  us  ye'd  have  her  ?  " 

Nanno  looked  at  them;  all  unmarried  girls  who,  like 
herself,  as  yet  had  not  known  the  power  of  their  own  na- 
tures. Then  her  eyes  wandered  to  the  figure  of  the  sob- 
bing girl  inside,  and  suddenly  she  realized  the  horror  of 
it.  They  were  going  to  turn  her  out  of  her  own  home. 
Her  own  mother  was  letting  her  go.  What  else  indeed 
could  she  do  ?  But  they — these  girls  whose  virtue  was  yet 
strong  in  them,  yet  whose  virtue  might  be  lost  that  very 
night — they  were  taking  her  judgment  into  their  own 
hands.  Not  knowing  what  she  had  suffered,  oblivious  of 
the  effort  she  may  have  made  to  guard  her  name,  ignorant 
of  the  cruel  and  pressing  pleasure  of  sin,  they  were  about 
to  pass  upon  her  the  sentence  of  their  own  disgust. 

For  one  moment  more  Nanno  gazed  at  them  all  in 
amazement.  The  same  relentless  look  was  in  the  eyes  of 
each  girl.  It  was  as  though  an  unswerving  law,  merciless 
in  its  irrevocability,  blind  in  its  sense  of  justice,  was  meting 
out  judgment  there  before  her.  She  felt  that  appeal  to 
their  pity  would  be  useless,  yet  there,  for  that  moment, 
drawn  by  an  irresistible  sympathy  for  the  wretched  girl, 
she  hesitated,  wondering  whether  it  would  be  possible  for 
such  an  appeal  to  be  made.  She  did  not  then  or  afterwards 
try  to  account  for  that  softness  of  her  heart.  It  only 
seemed  to  her,  as  she  looked  from  one  face  to  another,  that 
each  one  of  them,  she  herself  included,  might  find  them- 
selves in  such  a  plight  and  pray  in  vain  for  the  mercy 
which  that  girl  needed  then.  Was  theirs  the  mercy  of 
God  or  hers? 

At  last  she  turned  away,  unable  to  watch  the  course  of 
events  any  longer.  She  walked  slowly  down  the  street  to- 
wards Crowley's  shop,  her  mind  contorted  with  the  thoughts 


TRAFFIC.  47 

that  raced  through  it — a  flood  that  twisted  the  placid 
surface  of  the  stream  into  grotesque  eddies. 

Was  life  really  so  hard?  Was  sin,  which  seemed  so 
close  and  possible  a  thing,  never  punished  by  the  bitter- 
ness of  the  remorse  of  those  who  fell?  Was  forgiveness 
a  quality  that  none  possessed?  The  questions  all  tor- 
mented her  with  their  insistence. 

At  length  a  sound  of  groaning  from  many  voices  made 
her  turn  and  look  back.  Xancy  Foley  had  come  out  of  her 
house  and,  like  a  sheep  that  the  butcher  drives  to  the 
shambles,  she  was  being  turned  by  them  out  of  the  village. 
Her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands  as  she  hurried  along 
before  them  and,  with  compassionless  faces  on  which  the 
implacable  expression  of  merciless  justice  was  set,  they  fol- 
lowed her,  disappearing  from  sight  as  they  turned  off  out 
of  the  street.  In  just  such  a  manner  had  she  seen  Shaugh- 
nessy,  the  butcher,  driving  a  trembling  sheep  away  from  the 
openness  of  the  green  fields  and  the  blue  of  God's  sky  to 
that  shed  behind  his  cottage  where,  with  nerveless  hand,  he 
cut  its  throat. 

Then  Xanno  continued  her  way  to  Crowley's  shop.  Her 
mind  was  numbed.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
had  realized  what  was  the  meaning  of  an  inviolable  law. 
She  had  seen  it  at  work,  and  it  terrified  her.  She  had 
plainly  appreciated  the  right  of  it;  yet  there  was  some- 
thing beneath  its  execution  which  had  seemed  wanting  in 
absolute  justice.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  was  only 
one  of  the  many  who  had  wondered  and  thought  and  suf- 
fered in  that  very  way;  one  of  the  many  who  would  still 
wonder  and  think  and  suffer  so  long  as  laws  are  governed 
by  human  limitation.  She  did  not  ask  that  sin  should 
go  unpunished.  It  was  not  that  she  wished  to  avoid  retri- 
bution; but  only,  in  that  moment,  when  she  realized  the 
fate  of  Nancy  Foley,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  leaven  of 


48  TRAFFIC. 

human  pity,  of  human  kindness,  was  needed  to  influence 
the  judgment  between  the  nature  of  one  woman  and  an- 
other. 

Why  she,  as  yet  unsoiled  by  the  hand  of  any  man,  should 
have  been  driven  to  this  impulse  of  thought  by  what  she 
had  seen,  is  not  easy  to  define  by  any  law  of  psychology. 
It  has  been  said  that  Nanno  was  a  fatalist;  and  fatality, 
in  truth,  was  at  the  root  of  it  all.  The  mark  of  destiny 
that  lay  in  her  eyes,  the  hand  of  Fate  that  had  laid  itself 
upon  her  lips,  these  were  not  to  be  made  evident  without 
their  shadows  being  cast  across  her  thoughts. 

There  is  something  uncanny  in  the  nature  of  a  woman. 
She  reads  her  own  future  with  unswerving  instinct,  and 
follows  her  fate  as  a  dog  follows  its  master.  Almost  every 
story  in  Ireland  that  deals  with  witchcraft  and  the  posses- 
sion of  the  evil  eye,  is  concerned  with  a  woman,  and  the 
same  holds  good  nearly  the  whole  world  over. 

And  so,  no  doubt,  in  Nanno,  this  incident  had  stirred 
the  instinct  she  possessed.  In  the  flight  of  her  imagina- 
tion she  saw  herself  driven  by  a  law  that  knew  no  mercy 
or  restraint.  She  pictured  herself,  her  face  turned  to- 
wards the  unknown,  with  the  hounds  of  an  unswerving  jus- 
tice at  her  heels.  And  looking  on  into  life  with  that  clearer 
vision  which  only  women  possess,  she  dreaded  its  possibil- 
ities; shrank  from  its  unpitifulness,  and  wondered  why 
she  had  been  called  into  its  existence. 


JL 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THREE  days  later  came  the  Pattern.  Those  of  the  vil- 
lagers who  had  witnessed  the  expulsion  of  Xancy  Foley 
had  forgotten  the  incident,  insomuch  as  that  it  was  passed. 
They  might,  as  in  fact  they  did,  recount  it  to  those  to  whom 
it  would  be  news,  gossip,  scandal;  but  beyond  that,  it  had 
passed  out  of  their  lives.  Only  with  Xanno  did  it  re- 
main an  actual  fact;  si-ill  living,  still  horrible,  still  a  note 
that  had  been  sounded  in  the  recesses  of  her  mind,  the  echo 
of  which  would  continue  to  vibrate  until  that  moment 
when  all  vibration  ceases  and  the  labored  swinging  of  the 
pendulum  has  stopped. 

For  two  nights  it  had  forced  its  way  into  her  dreams. 
Women  in  this  way  are  susceptible  to  such  things.  And 
when  the  Pattern  day  arrived,  she  felt  in  no  mood  to 
enjoy  the  frivolities  of  the  occasion. 

As  soon  as  the  eleven  o'clock  Mass  was  over,  she  made 
her  way  up  to  the  holy  well,  which,  with  its  ruins  of  a 
chapel  of  the  fifth  century,  stands  out  of  the  cliff  side  as 
though,  withstanding  the  growth  of  weeds  around  it,  it 
held  tenaciously  to  the  right  of  its  existence.  True,  only 
the  gable  end  of  the  chapel,  the  high  altar  with  its  Gaelic 
cross  and  the  well  itself,  surmounted  by  the  three  figures 
of  Christ  and  the  two  thieves — these  only  had  defied  the 
wind  and  rain.  The  washed,  white  bones,  left  by  the  cara- 
van of  Time  in  the  desert  of  men's  ambitions.  They  stood 
there  invincible,  more  than  sufficient  to  stir  the  imagina- 
tion of  an  imaginative  people.  And  so,  in  commemoration 
4  49 


50  TRAFFIC. 

of  the  saint,  they  have  become  a  place  of  prayers;  prayeri 
which  are  but  echoes  in  another  tongue  of  the  supplications 
that  were  offered  there  fourteen  hundred  years  ago. 

Around  the  entire  ruin,  a  footpath  has  been  worn  by 
the  feet  of  those  who  have  walked  in  childish  meditation, 
counting  the  hand-worn  beads  of  their  rosary.  Year  after 
year  that  pathway  is  beaten  down  afresh ;  the  grass  that  has 
grown  there  is  worn  and  killed.  The  stone  which  forms 
the  base  of  the  cross  is  marked  in  the  name  of  the  Father 
and  of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost  by  each  supplicant 
as  he  ends  his  prayers.  One  by  one,  they  approach  it  as 
they  pass  and,  taking  up  the  sharp-edged  stone  which  is 
laid  there  for  the  purpose,  they  mark  the  sign  with  silently 
moving  lips.  That  sign  of  the  cross  is  now  deep  with  the 
imprint  of  many  a  man's  and  many  a  woman's  prayers. 
By  some  it  is  done  with  the  gentleness  of  reverence,  by 
others  with  the  fierceness  of  their  zeal,  but  one  and  all  they 
wear  it  deeper  and  yet  deeper  as  time  goes  by.  One  looks 
at  it  and  wonders — which  will  last  longest,  the  faith  or 
the  stone? 

It  had  not  outworn  that  faith  which  was  so  much  a 
part  of  Nanno's  nature.  Each  year,  as  the  Pattern  came 
by,  she  made  her  devotions  with  the  same  fervent  rever- 
ence. They  meant  a  great  deal  to  her.  Religion  is  mostly 
one  of  two  things ;  a  habit  or  a  consolation ;  and  to  Nanno 
it  was  a  consolation  in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word.  Be- 
yond the  friendship  of  John  Troy,  which,  however  true  it 
may  have  been,  was  clumsy  and  incomplete,  she  received 
sympathy  from  no  one.  And  then,  also,  it  is  within  the 
natural  order  of  things  that  the  sexual  development  of  a 
girl,  as  well  as  the  absence  of  sexual  gratification,  draws 
her  towards  a  contemplation  of  and  a  reliance  on  the 
faith  in  which  she  has  been  brought  up.  Religion  was 
made  for  young  girls,  disappointed  women,  and  the  moral 


TRAFFIC.  51 

benefit  of  the  state;  and  to  Nanno,  at  this  period  of  her 
life,  it  constituted  everything. 

In  company  with  John  Troy,  she  made  her  way  up  to 
the  well  after  the  eleven  o'clock  Mass.  The  beggars  who 
plied  a  substantial  trade  at  this  season  of  the  year  were 
seated  at  intervals — no  doubt  arranged  between  themselves 
— for  some  distance  along  the  approach  to  the  place.  At 
the  well  itself,  there  were  clusters  of  them.  Some  chose 
the  high  altar  where  the  sign  of  the  cross  was  marked 
on  the  stone.  Others  collected  near  the  spot  where  the  holy 
water  was  meted  out  in  thick  glass  tumblers — holy  water 
fed  by  the  rain  of  Heaven  and  polluted  with  the  washings 
of  diseased  humanity.  There,  were  seated  two  poor  wo- 
men of  the  village,  to  whom  the  right  of  sale  of  the  water 
was  accorded  as  a  charity.  It  was  not  compulsory  to  pay 
for  it,  certainly ;  but  that  it  was  holy  water  there  was  no 
denying,  and  those  who  partook  of  it,  received  a  candid 
opinion  of  themselves  from  the  vendors  if  payment  was  not 
forthcoming.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  every  one  paid.  The 
fear  of  public  opinion  is  a  worthy  incentive.  Much  the 
same  spirit  dominated  the  donations  to  the  beggars.  To 
refuse  alms  was  to  receive  a  curse  instead  of  a  blessing 
and,  at  the  moment  of  having  finished  their  devotions,  these 
simple  people  dislike  the  sound  of  a  curse,  even  though 
it  may  come  from  one  whose  prayers  only  soil  the  lips 
that  utter  them. 

And  so  they  do  well,  these  mendicants.  They  know 
accurately  the  susceptibility  of  the  natures  they  are  deal- 
ing with.  John  Troy  would  not  have  the  thought  of 
refusing  one  of  them. 

"  For  the  love  an'  d'onor  of  the  Almighty  God,  give 
a  copper  in  respect  of  the  poor  blind  man.  May  the 
Mother  o'  God  pray  for  the  sowls  of  veer  father  and 
mother,  sister  and  brother  for  the  love  an'  d'onor  of  the 
Almighty  God!'' 


52  TRAFFIC. 

John  Troy  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  the  blessings 
of  the  blind  man  followed  him — a  flutter  of  dead  leaves 
swept  into  life  by  a  passing  gust  of  wind —  as  he  and  Nanno 
walked  on  towards  the  place  to  make  their  rounds  of  the 
chapel. 

"May  the  blissid  Mother  o'  God  give  ye  the  benefits 
of  yeer  rounds,  and  may  all  the  hairs  of  yeer  head  turn 
into  mowld  candles  to  light  yeer  sowl  to  glory  on  the  last 
day ! " 

Again  the  simple  man  paid  for  the  price  of  his  prayers, 
and  again,  and  yet  again ;  an  automatic  dropping  of  coins 
into  a  machine  that  yielded  its  quota — nothing  else. 

"Will  ye  pray  for  me,  now?"  he  said,  as  he  gave  a 
penny  to  one  of  them. 

"  Will  I  pray  for  ye  ?  Shure,  glory  be  to  God — as  long 
as  wather  runs !  " 

But  the  chances  of  those  prayers  ever  being  said  were 
remote ;  more  remote  than  he  imagined. 

To  IsTanno  these  things  passed  unnoticed.  She  was  too 
engrossed  in  the  thought  of  her  own  prayers.  With  eyes 
lowered  on  the  beads  that  she  turned  through  her  fingers, 
or  with  her  head  raised  and  a  rapt  expression  on  her  face, 
she  walked  round  and  round  with  the  stream  of  suppli- 
cants, who,  in  the  anticipation  of  the  attractions  of  the 
village,  were  making  good  their  devotions  in  the  early  part 
of  the  day. 

They  were  all  set  prayers  that  she  said;  but  though! 
she  had  repeated  the  words  a  thousand  times — in  the  quiet 
of  the  kitchen  where  every  evening  John  Troy  responded 
to  the  rosary — they  seemed  to  supply  every  need  that 
her  mind  possessed.  It  seldom  occurred  to  her  to  say 
prayers  of  her  own  making.  Her  nature  was  completely 
dominated  by  those  which  her  religion  had  made  for  her. 
she  obeyed  it  implicitly.  To  disobey  it,  to  question 


TRAFFIC.  53 

it,  to  do  anything  that  opposed  its  slightest  precept,  was  as 
foreign  to  her  mind  as  the  north  wind  is  to  the  south.  It 
was  the  law  that  governed  the  world — the  pivot  of  every- 
thing that  existed.  Her  father's  sowing  might  cease  to 
yield  its  crop ;  his  cattle  might  refuse  to  breed  their  young ; 
but  her  religion  could  never  fail — to  her  it  was  indestruc- 
tible. 

The  sea  was  alight  with  the  sun  as  she  made  her  rounds 
of  the  chapel  that  morning.  Across  the  bay,  Helvic  Head 
slipped  out  into  the  sea — the  snout  of  a  leviathan,  just 
cooling  itself  in  the  water.  Gentle  breezes  of  wind  blew 
through  her  hair  as  she  walked ;  but  contemplation  of  the 
sea  and  thought  of  the  day  were  very  far  from  her  mind. 
She  noticed  nothing.  Occasionally  a  passer-by — one  whose 
religious  beliefs  were  contrary  to  the  expression  of  such 
simple  faith  as  this — would  stop  and  look  at  her.  Once 
two  men  nudged  each  other  as  she  went  by.  She  did  not 
notice  that.  Such  utter  unconsciousness  of  the  picture 
that  she  made  was  sufficiently  attractive  in  itself.  But 
the  expression  of  her  face  was  not  intense.  From  her  eyes 
the  look  of  fate  was  for  the  moment  gone  and,  in  its 
place,  reliance  was  predominant.  Her  lips,  slightly  parted, 
gave  an  impression  of  absolute  confidence.  She  was  lost  in 
what  she  believed. 

And  so  she  walked  and  prayed  until  the  rosary  was  fin- 
ished, and  she  was  standing  on  the  rough  stone  that 
raised  her  to  the  base  of  the  cross  on  the  high  altar.  In 
a  tender,  reverent  way,  she  took  up  the  jagged  stone  that 
lay  ready  for  her  hand  where  the  last  person  had  left  it; 
in  a  still  more  reverent  way,  she  began  to  mark  the  cross 
in  the  well-worn  groove. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father — and  of  the  Son — and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,"  her  lips  whispered;  then  as  she  looked 


54  TRAFFIC. 

up,  she  met  the  eyes  of  Jerningham,  watching  her  from 
the  footpath  where  he  stood. 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  It  was  not  that  she 
was  ashamed  of  being  seen;  but  she  felt  that  he  had  been 
watching,  coldly  observant  of  everything  that  she  had  done. 
It  seemed  as  though  he  had  found  her  at  a  disadvantage; 
displaying  something  of  herself  which  she  would  never 
willingly  have  shown  to  any  one. 

She  lowered  her  head  while  she  was  passing  him,  and 
his  eyes  followed  her  as  she  joined  the  stream  of  people 
who  were  leaving  the  place.  He  had  come  there  with  the 
cold  mind  of  the  materialist,  ready  to  make  a  study  of  na- 
tive superstition  and  subsequent  debauchery.  The  suppli- 
cations and  the  curses  of  the  beggars  seemed  to  him  to  be 
well  within  the  picture.  It  was  not  necessarily  a  bigoted 
opinion.  To  the  casual  outsider,  whose  education  has  been 
one  of  dry  facts  and  essentials,  it  was  a  conclusion  almost 
impossible  to  avoid.  The  Irish  character  that  is  growing 
out  of  childhood  is  losing  its  faith  in  these  simple  things; 
but  those  of  them  who  are  still  children  can  make-believe 
their  whole  life  long.  To  them,  religion  is  filled  with  its 
signs  and  wonders,  and  the  name  of  God  and  of  the  Mother 
of  God  is  forever  on  their  lips  in  earnest  supplication. 

But  to  distinguish  between  this  contrast,  which  under 
a  slow  process  of  evolution  has  now  been  established  in 
the  Irish  character,  is  no  easy  matter;  and  for  the  first 
few  moments,  while  he  stood  and  watched  them,  Jerning- 
ham was  carried  to  the  conclusion  which  is  arrived  at  by 
the  majority  of  Englishmen  who  come  with  a  protesting 
faith  for  the  first  time  to  Ireland.  They  call  it  priestcraft. 
They  say  that  the  priesthood  thrives  on  the  superstitions 
which  it  cultivates  in  the  minds  of  the  people.  Jerningham 
was  drifting  in  the  same  direction.  From  the  stolid  faces 
of  the  supplicants,  he  looked  to  the  vile  features  of  the  beg- 


TRAFFIC.  55 

gars,  viciously,  sensually  exhibiting  the  sores  and  ills  of 
their  bodies  and  crying  for  alms. 

What  truth  could  there  be  in  a  religion  whose  pursuits 
were  these?  he  asked  himself.  And  he  would  have  an- 
swered the  question  in  the  same  way  as  hundreds  who 
believe  they  understand  Ireland  have  answered  it  for  them- 
selves before ;  but  at  that  moment  he  saw  Nanno. 

Primarily  his  interest  in  the  girl  made  him  look,  and 
then  he  found  himself  slowly  being  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  was  at  fault.  Could  priestcraft  ever  play  on  feel- 
ings as  deep  as  those  which  he  thought  he  saw  expressed  in 
her  face  ? 

He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her.  In  watching  the 
movements  of  her  lips  he  forgot  how  they  had  interested 
him  on  their  first  meeting.  They  suggested  some  depth  of 
feeling  for  which,  at  the  moment,  he  was  unable  to  ac- 
count. It  disarmed  him.  The  materialist  still  inclined  to 
be  uppermost;  but  what  he  had  seen,  confused  him.  It 
was  easy  enough  to  believe  that  all  these  people  were  priest- 
ridden.  With  the  already  implanted  inclination  in  his 
mind,  he  fancied  that  such  was  plainly  to  be  seen  in  every 
action  and  every  expression  of  their  faces.  But  this  girl 
— this  Xanno  Troy.  The  fact  that  he  knew  her — even 
so  slightly  as  he  did — seemed  to  give  him  a  better  oppor- 
tunity of  judging.  And  her  expression  dismayed  him;  he 
felt  confused. 

At  last,  when  she  had  gone  out  of  sight  he  turned  away, 
to  be  met  by  the  supplication  of  a  beggar. 

ee  May  the  Holy  Mother  o'  God  bless  yer  honor,  and  may 
ill-luck  never  stop  at  yeer  door !  " 

He  looked  down  at  the  depraved  face  of  the  woman  and 
shook  his  head;  and,  as  he  walked  away,  she  added  an 
amendment  to  her  wish : 

"  But  fly  in  at  the  windy  in  handfuls — ye  durrty " 

He  heard  no  more. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  aftermath  of  the  Pattern,  the  swings,  the  dancing, 
the  parading  of  the  village  street,  these  things  had  no  at- 
traction for  Xanno.  As  soon  as  her  rounds  of  the  holy 
well  were  finished  she  went  home.  John  walked  with  her 
as  far  as  the  school-house,  but  there,  though  he  had  no 
definite  intention  of  staying  behind,  the  inclination  Avas 
too  strong.  He  saw  James  Crowley,  the  publican,  play- 
ing forty-five  with  three  of  the  fishermen.  John  could 
not  resist  that.  He  edged  his  course  towards  the  upturned 
barrel  upon  which  the  four  men  were  laying  their  greasy 
cards.  As  he  reached  them,  Crowley  produced  the  ace  of 
hearts,  recognizable  more  by  the  shape  than  the  color  of  it 
and,  at  the  sight  of  that,  John  stopped.  Xanno  had  looked 
back  for  the  moment  and  then  had  gone  on  by  herself. 
She  knew  his  partiality  for  a  game  of  forty-five. 

Men  jostled  her  as  she  passed  through  the  crowds  in 
the  narrow  street,  but  she  took  little  notice.  Girls  march- 
ing abreast,  arm  in  arm,  called  out  laughingly  to  her  to  join 
them;  she  smiled  in  reply,  to  some  she  shook  her  head  in 
refusal,  but  she  continued  her  way  home,  talking  to  no 
one. 

"  She's  gettin'  great  pride  out  of  herself,"  one  girl  said 
as  she  passed. 

"  Shure  she's  always  that  way  shure — the  divil  couldn't 
touch  her  wid  a  pitchfork,"  and  with  their  gaudy-colored 
dresses  and  ribbons  they  pushed  their  way  through  the 
crowd. 

56 


TRAFFIC.  57 

Apparently  she  took  no  interest  in  anything.  A  col- 
lection of  people  had  gathered  round  a  journeyman  clown 
who,  with  filthy  jests  addressed  to  an  imaginary  comrade 
whom  he  alluded  to  as  Billy,  was  making  them  shout  with 
laughter;  Xanno  hurried  by  with  only  a  side-glance  in 
their  direction. 

From  that  moment  the  pace  of  her  steps  increased.  In 
the  back  of  the  crowd,  she  had  seen  Jamesy  Eyan.  His 
face  was  contorted  with  sensual  laughter,  the  little  eyes 
were  pinched  with  the  wrinkled  flesh ;  she  heard  the  shout 
of  his  hilarity  above  all  the  others,  and  for  that  reason, 
lest  he  should  see  her,  she  hurried  on. 

When  she  reached  home,  the  kitchen  was  crowded  with 
friends,  acquaintances,  and  far-distant  relatives.  They  all 
greeted  her  with  geniality  that  in  some  cases  was  genuine 
and  in  others  alcoholic.  The  smell  of  intoxicants,  com- 
bined with  the  heat  of  many  people,  almost  disgusted  her 
as  she  came  in  from  the  outer  air. 

They  all  sat  round  in  Ihe  room,  occupying  every  avail- 
able seat  that  was  to  be  had.  Each  man  grasped  a  bottle 
of  porter  in  his  hand.  They  leaned  forward  with  their 
elbows  on  their  knees,  the  bottle  held  out  in  front  of  them. 
Some  of  the  older  women  were  drinking  too,  but  these 
were  supplied  with  glasses,  the  exteriors  of  which  were  all 
greasy  and  sticky  with  the  porter  that  had  slopped  over  the 
brim. 

In  every  face  there  was  a  vacuous  expression  of  enjoy- 
ment. They  spoke  at  intervals  between  the  gurgling  sound 
of  their  drinking — animals  raising  their  heads  from  the 
trough.  Sometimes  the  conversation  became  loud  and 
noisy.  The  men  laughed  gutturally ;  the  women  with  occas- 
ional high  notes,  as  though  they  had  been  drinking  too 
much.  On  the  table  by  the  little  window  that  looked  out 
on  to  the  yard  were  numerous  empty  bottles.  They  were 


58  TRAFFIC. 

ranged  in  careless  disorder  on  the  board  behind  the  men 
who  had  chosen  it  as  a  seat. 

In  a  corner  of  the  fireplace,  under  the  chimney,  Bridget 
sat  on  a  low  form  and  gossiped  with  a  stout  woman,  whose 
black  cape  that  fitted  her  shoulders  was  heavily  ornamented 
with  jet. 

She  was  just  telling  Bridget  how  much  she  paid  for  it 
at  Callaghan's  in  Anesk,  when  Xanno  entered. 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  shure  she's  the  dead  spit  of  her 
father !  "  the  stout  woman  exclaimed. 

Bridget  turned  away  with  a  coarse  laugh,  and  urged 
a  man  who  was  sitting  near  her  on  the  red  settle  to  have  an- 
other drop  of  porter.  He  finished  hurriedly  what  remained 
in  the  bottle  that  he  had  and  took  it. 

It  was  at  times  like  these,  that  N"anno  gave  those  around 
her  the  impression  that  she  was  morose.  She  felt  it  im- 
possible to  join  in  the  conversation.  She  lacked  that  power 
of  being  able  to  give  herself  up  to  the  present  with  the 
abandonment  that  possessed  those  with  whom  she  contin- 
ually came  in  contact. 

On  the  little  three-legged  stool,  which,  at  various  turning- 
points  in  his  life,  John  Troy  had  frequently  sat,  Nanno 
seated  herself  in  the  chimney-corner  and  silently  turned 
the  bellows  wheel.  For  a  while,  after  the  numerous  greet- 
ings were  over,  she  escaped  notice;  but  at  last  Bridget's 
eyes  rested  on  her;  and,  whether  it  were  those  vagaries  that 
possess  a  woman's  mind  when  she  has  been  drinking  to 
excess,  or  simply  that  bitterness  of  rage  which  she  always 
felt  when  she  recognized  Nanno's  aloofness,  she  directed  an 
attack  upon  her  to  which  every  one  in  the  kitchen  stopped 
in  speaking  to  listen. 

"  What  did  ye  want  to  come  back  here  for  in  the  name 
o'  God?  Why  didn't  ye  stay  back  in  the  shtreet  if  y« 
can't  get  a  word  out  of  yeself  ?  " 


TRAFFIC.  59 

Nanno  looked  up  in  confusion. 

"•'  Maybe  I  didn't  want  to,"  she  retorted.  "  There  are 
plenty  o'  girls  in  the  shtreet  without  me  trapsin'  about." 

"  Maybe  'tis  the  way  ye  thought  yeself  too  good  for  the 
fellas."  Bridget  turned  and  addressed  the  company  in 
general.  "  Glory  be  to  God,  me  heart's  broke  thrying  to 
pick  up  an  ould  farmer  for  her  who'll  take  her  wid  a 
couple  o'  hundred  pounds." 

Every  one  laughed  uproariously. 

"  Begob,  there's  Patsy  Gee !  "  said  one  man.  The  sug- 
gestion was  met  with  renewed  merriment.  Patsy  Gee  was 
a  farmer  who,  in  the  effort  of  burying  three  wives,  had 
reached  the  age  of  seventy-eight.  "  Maybe  he'd  thry  his 
luck  wid  a  fourth  if  she  cud  bring  him  a  couple  o'  hun- 
dhred." 

Nanno  bent  down,  took  the  iron,  and  raked  some  cinders 
on  to  the  pile  of  glowing  fuel.  She  did  not  want  to  draw 
further  attention  to  herself  by  getting  up  and  leaving  the 
room  then,  and  so  she  did  not  even  make  a  reply  to  the 
last  sally.  She  was  getting  accustomed  to  this  jest  of  her 
mother's  about  the  ould  farmer  and  the  couple  o'  hunderd 
pounds.  Bridget  wanted  to  see  her  married;  and  this  con- 
tinual harping  on  the  probable  sum  of  her  dowry  when  any 
one  was  present,  was  solely  in  the  form  of  an  advertise- 
ment. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  she  avoided  Jamesy  Ryan. 
From  his  manner  to  her,  she  was  fully  aware  that  the  sum 
of  two  hundred  pounds  would  be  more  than  sufficient  temp- 
tation to  him.  Whenever  the  matter  was  mentioned,  she 
knew  that  the  moment  was  bound  to  come  when  the  in- 
formation would  reach  his  ears  and,  bad  character  though 
he  was  well  known  to  be,  she  was  sure  that  her  mother 
would  accept  him  with  open  arms.  At  length,  when  the 
conversation  had  turned  and  well  set  in  on  the  topic  of 


60  TRAFFIC. 

Xancy  Foley's  expulsion  from  Rathmore,  Nanno  rose 
quietly  from  her  seat  in  the  chimney-corner  and  slipped 
unnoticed  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  time  for  the  cows  to  be  brought  home  for  milk- 
ing, and,  more  because  she  wanted  to  avoid  any  further 
reference  to  her  marriage  settlement,  than  because  it  was 
her  duty  to  do  so,  she  went  across  the  fields  to  fetch 
them. 

The  evening  was  creeping  through  the  trees  when  they 
were  finally  turned  out  to  graze  again ;  and  then,  still  wish- 
ing to  avoid  the  people  in  the  kitchen  who,  as  the  day  wore 
on,  were  becoming  more  noisy,  more  hilarious,  she  set  out 
for  the  village. 

In  the  gray  light  it  would  not  be  so  difficult  to  avoid 
Jamesy  Ryan.  She  would  not  have  ventured  there  before. 
As  she  entered  the  street,  she  passed  John  Troy,  standing, 
as  he  had  seen  James  Crowley,  with  three  other  men 
round  the  upturned  barrel.  His  simple  face  was  flushed 
with  excitement  and  with  what  he  had  been  drinking.  As 
a  rule  he  was  a  temperate  man.  No  one  would  ever  have 
accused  him  of  riotous  living ;  but  it  was  a  saint's  day  and 
a  holiday.  His  condition  was  almost  inevitable.  Xanno 
saw  him  lay  down  a  card  with  a  thud  of  his  fist  on  the 
barrel.  His  eyes  glittered  with  suppressed  excitement 
and,  with  his  other  hand,  he  held  his  cards  guardedly 
to  his  chest. 

For  one  moment  she  waited,  until  the  hand  was  played 
and  then,  when  she  realized  that  he  had  lost,  when  she 
saw  his  hand  go  unhesitatingly  to  his  pocket,  she  turned 
away. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  street,  by  the  sea-wall,  where  an 
open  space  gave  them  opportunity,  the  swings  were  placed. 
She  would  not  have  been  human  had  she  not  been  interested 


TRAFFIC.  61 

in  seeing  the  people  there.  And  so  she  made  her  way  in 
that  direction. 

The  naphtha  flares  were  hanging  from  different  parts 
of  the  scaffolding.  They  had  already  been  lighted  and 
were  casting  a  spluttering  glare  on  the  faces  of  those  who 
stood  around.  Like  great  sweeping  hats,  the  swings  were 
swaying  to  and  fro  above  her  head  in  the  dull  blue  light 
against  the  sky.  The  men  stood  up  high  in  the  seats  as 
they  rose  and  pulled  strainingly  on  the  woolen-covered  ropes 
that  slid  between  their  fingers.  The  girls  shrank  in  their 
seats,  holding  limply  to  the  ropes  and  uttering  stupid  little 
cries  as  the  boats  swayed  to  and  fro. 

Xanno  watched  them  with  a  smile  on  her  face.  For  the 
first  time  that  day  she  forgot  that  a  fate  was  hanging  over 
her.  And  then,  even  at  that  moment,  even  when  she  had 
forgotten,  the  expression  in  her  eyes  suddenly  changed.  A 
hand  slipped  through  her  arm  and  a  heavy  voice  said : 

"  There'll  be  one  o'  thim  bloody  boats  empty  in  a 
minute."  And  the  hand  still  held  her  arm. 

"  I  don't  care  for  swingin',  then,"  Nanno  said  hurriedly. 

"  Shure  I  don't  care  a  damn  about  thai — I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  go  an'  swing  by  yeerself." 

"  I  will  not.  Ye'll  come  in  that  boat  they're  after  stop- 
pin'  now.  Come  on ! "  Evan  caught  her  again  by  the 
arm. 

She  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  face.  His  eyes  were 
bloodshot,  his  cheeks  heavy  and  red.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  he  would  have  struck  her  had  she  refused,  and  so  she 
went. 

For  the  first  few  minutes,  he  pulled  violently  at  his  rope, 
standing  perilously  upright  in  the  fragile  little  vehicle  and 
saying  not  a  word,  until  they  were  swinging  higher  than 
any  of  the  others.  Every  time  the  boat  rose  at  his  side, 
she  saw  his  vicious-looking  face,  covered  with  perspiration 


62  TRAFFIC. 

from  his  exertions,  glaring  down  into  hers;  every  time  it 
rose  at  her  side,  she  shrank  into  her  seat  lest  she  should 
fall  on  the  top  of  him. 

And  then,  when  he  was  satisfied  with  the  altitude  which 
they  had  reached,  he  rose  to  the  rope  no  more,  but  leaned 
forward  until  his  face  was  close  to  hers  and  she  felt  the 
tainted  breath  from  his  mouth  in  her  nostrils.  She  shrank 
from  him — a  sensitive  plant  withering  before  the  coarse- 
ness of  an  unaccustomed  touch. 

"  Ye  think  I'm  drunk,"  he  said  at  last,  and  his  small 
eyes  fixed  themselves  on  her. 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Maybe  I've  drink  taken,"  he  went  on,  "  but  I'm  not 
drunk — by  Christ,  I  am  not!  An'  I'll  tell  ye — whisper, 
I'll  tell  ye  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  up  drinkin'  if  ye'll— 

At  that  second  the  brake  was  applied  underneath  the 
boat  and  they  found  themselves  stopping  beside  another 
swing  next  them,  in  which  was  seated  the  man  who  had 
exerted  his  humor  at  the  expense  of  Patsy  Gee,  when  Brid- 
get had  spoken  about  her  daughter's  dowry. 

When  he  saw  Nanno,  he  laughed. 

"  Good  man,  Jamesy,  bi  gob !  "  he  said.  "  Gettin'  yeer 
fisht  into  that  two  hundhred  pounds." 

Ryan  looked  at  him  with  a  dull  light  of  perception  in 
his  eyes.  Then  he  looked  at  Nanno. 

The  swing  stopped.  Xanno  got  out  quickly.  The  mo- 
ment her  feet  touched  the  ground,  she  extricated  herself 
from  the  tangle  of  ropes  and  scaffolding  and  hurried  away 
into  the  darkness,  where  the  glare  of  the  naphtha  lights  had 
lost  their  penetraition.  Once  in  the  crowd  of  people  again, 
she  felt  safe.  He  would  scarcely  follow  her  there. 

One  thought  only,  was  spurring  her  mind;  the  other 
aspect  had  entered  into  Jamesy  Ryan's  calculations.  Be- 
tween wanting  to  marry  her,  which  was  construing  his  pur- 


TRAFFIC.  63 

pose  at  its  best,  and  actually  proposing  for  her  hand,  she 
knew  that  there  was  a  lot  to  be  overcome  in  his  expecta- 
tions. Marriage  is  a  mercenary  matter  in  Ireland,  and 
the  solicitor  is  the  most  important  factor  concerned.  Oc- 
casionally a  man's  feelings  get  the  better  of  him  and  he 
marries  with  his  heart ;  but  it  is  not  often  the  case.  To  the 
majority,  the  dowry  of  the  girl  is  of  foremost  consideration. 
And  so,  much  though  she  knew  Jamesy  Evan  was  attracted 
to  her,  there  was  always  the  question  of  the  dowry  to  be 
weighed.  Now  at  last  it  had  been  put  in  the  balance. 
If  her  mother  openly  admitted  to  being  prepared  to  part 
with  two  hundred  pounds  on  the  marriage  of  her  daughter, 
there  was  every  reason  to  suppose  that  when  the  matter 
came  to  actual  barter,  she  would  raise  it  at  least  to  three. 
It  was  a  large  sum;  larger  than  Xanno  would  ever  have 
anticipated  as  being  the  value  that  Bridget  put  upon  her. 
But  the  real  point  of  fact  in  her  mind,  was  that  it  was 
more  than  sufficient  to  bring  Jamesy  to  a  definite  intention. 
She  had  felt  it  in  the  way  he  had  regarded  the  man  in 
the  swing;  she  had  known  it  in  the  way  he  had  looked 
at  her. 

With  the  torture  of  these  thoughts  in  her  mind  she  fol- 
lowed any  direction  that  her  impulse  led  her,  until  at 
length,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  she  approached 
the  holy  well. 

It  was  a  vastly  different  spectacle  from  what  it  had  been 
in  the  daytime.  Contented  or  dissatisfied  with  their  day's 
work,  the  beggars — tinkers  as  they  call  them  in  those  parts 
— were  resting  from  their  labors.  Clustered  around  fires 
burning  on  the  ground,  which  threw  sharp  lights  on  their 
rough  features,  and  cast  weird  shadows  that  danced  and 
shivered  on  the  grass  behind  them,  they  sang  and  drank 
at  intervals.  An  old  woman,  seated  by  herself,  holding  ten- 
aciously to  a  bottle  in  her  lap,  emitted  flatulent  noises 


64  TRAFFIC. 

from  her  mouth,  at  which,  when  they  heard  them,  the 
others  laughed  revoltingly. 

Xanno  thought  of  the  prayers  she  had  said,  the  prayers 
they  had  promised,  and  turned  away  in  disgust.  She 
walked  a  few  steps  and  then  looked  around  again.  It  ap- 
peared to  her  forcibly  that  all  life  was  like  this.  She  had 
seen  it  so  frequently.  Sin  had  its  reaction  of  remorse,  as 
well  as  virtue  its  aftermath  of  vice.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  steady,  even  course ;  nothing  upon  which  one  could  rely 
with  any  degree  of  certainty.  Even  the  crops  failed  some- 
times, and  the  cattle  did  not  give  their  yield. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  the  realization  of  things  to 
Nanno.  She  stood  there  still  wondering  them,  when  out 
of  the  gloom  that  hung  round  the  ruins,  the  light  of  the 
fires  falling  intermittently  on  his  face  as  he  passed  them, 
she  saw  Jerningham  striding  up  the  cliff  path. 

The  beggars  appealed  to  him  loudly  in  the  name  of  God 
as  he  went  by;  even  the  old  woman,  cautiously  concealing 
the  bottle  under  her  skirt,  bid  for  his  money  in  exchange 
for  her  prayers.  For  the  first  time,  oSTanno  understood  why 
people  sometimes  refused  to  notice  them. 

As  he  approached  her,  she  leaned  over  the  wall,  looking 
out  across  the  bay,  her  head  averted,  with  the  intention 
that  he  should  pass  her  unnoticed;  yet  hoping  against 
intention  that  he  might  recognize  who  she  was. 

His  footsteps  came  nearer ;  they  reached  her,  they  passed 
her;  but  even  in  passing  she  thought  she  hearcf  hesitation 
in  them.  And  then,  when  she  was  beginning  to  doubt  her 
impression,  she  heard  him  stop. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  still.  She  felt  his  eyes  studying 
her,  but  she  did  not  look  round  At  last  he  made  up  his 
mind.  She  heard  him  coming  towards  her.  It  was,  no 
doubt,  the  delay,  the  sense  of  uncertainty  at  length  made 
certain,  but  the  blood  tingled  in  her  cheeks. 


TRAFFIC.  65 

"  Isn't  that  Nanno  Troy  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

She  turned  round. 

"  It  is,  sir." 

He  leaned  over  the  wall  near  her. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  How  is  it  you're  not  down 
in  the  village  with  the  rest  of  Eathmore  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  after  comin'  away  from  it." 

"  Oh  yes.  Didn't  I  see  you  this  morning  at  the  holy 
well?" 

"  You  did,  sir." 

"  I  thought  so.  It's  a  wonderful  place  to  say  one's 
prayers." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly  and  then  her  eyes  wan- 
dered down  to  the  encampment  of  beggars.  He  followed 
her  look. 

"  Do  they  sleep  here  all  night  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  do,  sir.  People  won't  take  them  in  down  street. 
They're  too  noisy.  '"Tis  a  shame  for  them  to  be  here  any- 
way!" 

"  Do  you  think  that  ?  " 

"  I  do.  'Tis  a  sacrilege  they  make  of  the  place.  The 
parish  priest  ought  never  to  leave  them  come  there." 

"  I  believe  you're  right,"  he  said.  "  They're  not  very 
edifying  to  a  heathen  like  me." 

She  looked  up  at  his  face. 

"  Indeed,  I'm  shure  ye're  not  a  heathen,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am.  I  don't  believe  in  holy  wells  and 
saints'  days.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  believe  in  saints  at  all. 
It  seems  to  me  that  all  of  us  who  are  not  irredeemable  sin- 
ners, are  saints — more  or  less — mostly  less,  no  doubt. 
Wouldn't  you  call  that  being  a  heathen  of  the  most  im- 
possible type  ?  " 

"  I  would  not.  'Tis  because  ye  weren't  taught  that  way. 
5 


66  TRAFFIC. 

No  one  would  be  after  callin'  ye  a  fool  because  ye  didn't 
know  how  to  milk  a  cow." 

"Wouldn't  they?    I  couldn't  milk  one." 

"  That's  because  ye  havn't  been  taught." 

"  I  expect  it  is.  But  then,  if  I  was  taught,  I  believe  I 
could  learn." 

"  Ye  could — of  course." 

"  Well  you  see,  that's  where  the  difference  lies." 

"What  difference? 

"  I  couldn't  believe  in  saints — however  much  you  taught 
me.  That's  why  I  must  be  a  heathen." 

He  was  trying  her  rather  severely ;  but  it  was  because,  in 
the  estimation  he  had  formed  of  her,  he  believed  that  she 
could  stand  it.  He  found  himself  realizing  that  he  would 
be  disappointed  if  she  could  not. 

"  But  I  couldn't  teach  ye,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment's 
pause. 

"  Why  not  ?    You  know  everything  about  it  ?  " 

"  Maybe  I  do ;  but  like  it's  not  a  lesson  that  ye  can  learn 
like  milkin',  d'ye  see.  Shure  I  believe  in  saints;  but  I 
don't  know  anything  about  them.  It's  believin'  that  ye 
have  to  be  taught,  and  shure  I  couldn't  teach  ye  to  believe." 

He  felt  forcibly  the  gentle  inference  she  had  made  that 
it  was  God  alone  who  could  teach  him  belief,  and  there 
was  admiration  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her. 

"  You're  a  wonderful  girl,  Nanno,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  looked  at  him  with  big  eyes. 

"  What  d'ye  mane  by — wonderful  ?  " 

He  smiled. 

"  Well — I  really  mean  that  I've  never  met  any  one  like 
you,  and  I  can't  understand  you  in  the  least." 

"  There's  no  call  for  ye  to  understand  me." 

"  Yes — you're  right  there.  Not  the  faintest  call  in  the 
world.  How  long  have  you  lived  in  Eathmore  ?  " 


TRAFFIC.  67 

"  Since  I  was  born." 

"  How  long  is  that  ?  " 

"  Xearly  twenty  years." 

"  Is  that  all  you  are  ?    ~Not  twenty  yet  ?  " 

"  Nineteen." 

"  Heavens !  And  yet  there  are  women  of  your  age  in 
London  who  know  every  trick  of  the  trade,  and  can  play 
the  game  with  their  eyes  shut/' 

She  frowned :  it  was  because  she  could  not  understand. 

"  What  trade  ?  "  she  asked.    "  What  game?  " 

"  Well — what  is  a  woman's  trade  ?  " 

"  Shure,  I  dunno." 

"  Well — getting  married  I  suppose — isn't  it  ?  " 

"Is  it?" 

"I  should  think  so.  When  are  you  going  to  be  mar- 
ried?" 

She  remained  silent. 

"  Haven't  you  made  up  your  mind  yet  ?  "  he  persisted. 

She  looked  away  from  him.  The  light  of  the  fires 
touched  her  face. 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry,"  she  replied,  and  he  thought  he 
saw  her  shiver. 

"  You're  cold,"  he  said.  "  You  oughtn't  to  be  standing 
out  here.  It's  half -past  nine;  you  ought  to  be  getting 
home." 

He  moved  away  from  the  wall  on  which  they  had  been 
leaning. 

"  I'll  walk  home  with  you,  if  I  may." 

She  started  in  the  direction  of  the  high  road  that  over- 
looks the  village.  It  was  the  shortest  way  back.  He  fol- 
lowed her. 

They  passed  down  by  the  Eound  Tower,  on  the  road 
covered  by  trees  where  the  Protestant  Vicarage  stands. 
It  was  very  dark  there.  It  was  very  dark  everywhere.  She 


68  TRAFFIC. 

compared  him  with  Jamesy  Ryan  under  similar  circum- 
stances. The  comparison  was  unavoidable.  This  man  was 
utterly  different. 

When  they  reached  the  gate  in  Troy's  Lane,  he  stopped. 
He  was  just  about  to  say  something  to  her,  when  a  burst  of 
uproarious  laughter  from  the  kitchen  forced  its  way 
through  the  gloom  across  the  yard.  It  shook  the  darknesf 
like  a  clatter  of  metal.  It  was  quite  unmistakable.  A 
woman's  voice  mingled  with  it;  it  was  Bridget's,  and  the 
laugh  of  a  drunken  woman  is  the  essence  of  abandonment. 
One  does  not  require  to  have  heard  it  before  to  recognize  it. 
Jerningham  looked  quickly  at  Kanno. 

"  It  that  why  you  stayed  out  so  late  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  hand 
stretched  out  for  the  gate. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  she  said  as  the  gate  swung  open. 

He  accepted  her  answer. 

"  Good-night,  ISTanno,"  he  replied. 

She  turned  into  the  yard.  The  blackness  swallowed  her 
up;  but  he  still  waited  there,  standing  in  the  lane. 

Then,  as  if  the  darkness  of  the  place  had  been  rent,  the 
light  of  the  room,  as  Nanno  opened  the  kitchen  door,  shone 
out  for  a  moment.  Inside  he  could  see  men  and  women, 
firelight  and  guttering  candles.  He  heard  a  slovenly  voice 
calling  her  name ;  he  heard  the  clamp  of  the  door  as  it  shut ; 
and  then  he  turned  a\va}r,  wondering  how  long  she  would 
put  up  with  life  like  that;  wondering  what  would  be  the 
end  of  her ;  wondering  why,  with  her  lips  and  her  eyes  and 
her  hair,  she  had  ever  been  born  into  it  at  all. 


CHAPTER  Till. 

PHILIP  JERXIXGIIAM  was  a  plain  man — of  the  world, 
one  might  add;  but  of  the  world  would  be  wrong.  He 
lived  in  the  world  and  with  it;  moved  waist-deep  in  the 
flood  of  its  affairs,  and  mixed  with  men  every  day  for  whom 
life  had  lost  most  of  its  sensations.  To  this  type  belong 
those  who  pamper  their  emotions  as  an  epicure  does  his 
appetite;  men  who  take  a  sherry  and  bitters  before  a  meal 
and  need  the  spectacle  of  a  dancing  woman  behind  the  foot- 
lights before  their  animal  passions  are  aroused.  This  type 
is  of  the  world,  and  Jerningham  did  not  belong  to  it. 

His  father,  the  owner  of  a  small  brewery  in  one  of  the 
Midland  counties,  a  man  to  whom  business  for  six  days  of 
the  week  was  business,  and  religion  for  the  seventh  day 
was  a  rigid  discipline,  had  brought  him  up  with  healthy 
instincts,  plenty  of  fresh  air,  and  many  a  sound  thrashing. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen,  his  mother,  a  pretty,  effeminate 
little  woman,  left  Mr.  Jerningham,  senior,  to  take  life  as 
it  came  with  the  under-brewer,  and  Philip  was  hurried 
away  from  home,  from  the  local  school  where  he  was  at- 
tending, to  begin  a  course  of  crammed  education  for  a 
University  scholarship.  Old  Mr.  Jerningham  put  as  much 
faith  in  the  winning  of  a  scholarship  as  he  did  in  the  head- 
master's report  at  the  end  of  a  term.  Years  afterwards, 
when  he  had  scraped  through  his  terms  at  Oxford,  and 
passed  from  a  short  career  in  a  bank  to  the  Stock  Exchange, 
he  received  a  letter  from  his  mother,  from  whom,  since  he 
was  thirteen  years  of  age,  he  had  heard  nothing.  It  was  a 

69 


70  TRAFFIC. 

short  note,  addressed  from  a  square  in  Bloomsbury,  begging 
him  to  come  and  see  her. 

He  was  at  that  time  just  thirty  years  of  age.  His  father 
was  dead;  the  brewery  had  passed  into  other  hands  and, 
until  that  moment,  he  had  considered  himself  without  re- 
lations of  any  kind  worth  counting.  Half  an  hour  after 
he  had  received  the  letter,  the  bell  of  the  house  in  Blooms- 
bury  was  answering  to  his  hand. 

His  mother  was  dying.  She  was  worn  to  a  shadow.  He 
noticed,  pathetically,  the  thinness  of  her  wrists  and  the 
bones  that  forced  themselves  into  prominence  on  her  chest. 
She  was  fifty-three  then,  and  all  the  light  had  been  driven 
out  of  her  eyes.  She  knew  she  was  dying.  She  told  him 
so;  it  was  with  the  first  note  of  cheerfulness  that  he  had 
heard  in  her  voice.  Her  life  had  been  a  failure,  and  she 
offered  no  complaints.  The  under-brewer  had  left  her  some 
years  before.  She  told  him  that,  with  unconscious  paren- 
thesis, as  though  it  were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  for  him  to  do. 

"  Did  you  let  the  pater  know  that  ? "  he  had  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  then  stretched  a  thin  hand  out  across 
the  dingy  coverlet  to  touch  his. 

"  I  didn't  let  you  know  until — well — until  now.  You 
had  your  life  to  make.  I  wasn't  going  to  hamper  you  with 
a  mother." 

"As  far  as  that  goes,  life  makes  itself,  mater,"  he  had 
replied.  "  I  don't  believe  in  digging  for  it." 

The  expression  of  that  sentiment  contained  the  whole  of 
his  attitude  towards  existence.  He  did  not  believe  in  dig- 
ging up  life  from  the  heaps  and  the  pits  where  it  is  mostly 
to  be  found.  But  when  it  came  his  way,  he  was  man  and 
human  enough  not  to  avoid  it. 

In  Plowden  Buildings,  Middle  Temple,  where  he  had 
chambers,  there  had  been  women  to  see  him.  Men  had 


TRAFFIC.  71 

drunk  too  much  there ;  one  man  in  his  sitting-room,  he  had 
saved  from  committing  suicide.  All  of  those  things  were 
life  in  a  way,  but  he  had  not  that  morbid  inclination  to 
drag  it  to  his  rooms  and  place  it  under  the  microscope,  that 
is  possessed  by  so  many.  The  women  who  came  that  way, 
he  treated  as  they  would  have  expected  to  be  treated;  on 
the  whole,  perhaps,  with  infinitely  more  consideration.  The 
men  who  drank  too  much,  did  so  without  forethought  or 
premeditation.  His  whisky  may  sometimes  have  been  bet- 
ter than  at  others,  or  the  men  more  jovial.  And  as  for  the 
man  who  tried  to  commit  suicide,  Jerningham  paid  his 
passage  for  him  out  to  the  Cape,  where  the  cause  of  his 
trouble  could  be  avoided,  and  then  he  succeeded  in  forget- 
ting all  about  him. 

And  this  constituted  life  as  Jerningham  saw  it.  He  did 
not  find  it  morbid.  At  times,  perhaps,  it  seemed  serious; 
as  when  his  mother  had  finally  died,  with  her  emaciated 
fingers  lying  in  the  grip  of  his  hand.  But  on  the  whole  it 
was  interesting.  There  was  always  the  struggle  in  the 
crowd,  to  avoid  the  fall  of  the  Damoclean  hammer.  That 
interested  him.  More  than  once,  he  had  seen  the  shadow  of 
it  at  his  feet  and,  looking  up,  had  perceived  it  swinging 
above  his  head.  And  then,  what  came  from  outside,  was 
all  grist  to  the  mill.  He  was  a  casual  observer  of  many 
things;  a  spectator  who,  finding  himself  on  the  ground, 
makes  the  best  of  it  and  determines  to  be  interested  in  the 
game. 

On  the  Stock  Exchange  itself  he  was  known  as — straight. 
Men  were  glad  to  make  a  deal  with  him.  Honesty  lies 
mostly  in  the  eyes ;  and  you  could  find  it  in  Jerningham's. 

It  was  during  the  Oxford  days,  that  he  had  become 
friendly  with  one  of  the  young  Fennels,  and  from  that  ac- 
quaintance had  arisen  his  visit  to  Eathmore, 


T2  TRAFFIC. 

"  Never  been  to  Ireland  ?  "  Harry  Fennel  said  to  him  one 
day,  when  they  had  met  casually  in  the  City. 

"  Never,"  Jerningham  replied. 

"  Well  then,  come  over  this  summer  with  me  to  Rath- 
more — my  people  are  going  there  for  the  holidays — and  I'll 
show  you  south  of  Ireland  life  fresh  out  of  the  ground, 
before  the  earth's  washed  off." 

Jerningham  had  accepted  the  invitation. 

Crossing  over  by  Milford  to  Cork,  he  had  stood  on  the 
boat,  when  it  had  reached  the  quay,  while  the  luggage  was 
being  collected.  An  old  man,  who  seemed  to  have  command 
over  every  laborer  within  sight,  was  conducting  the  removal 
of  cargo.  His  face  was  red  with  fierce  excitement.  His 
little  eyes  danced  dangerously  in  his  head,  and  his  voice, 
always  pitched  on  its  highest  key,  sometimes  broke  into  a 
hoarse  whisper  in  his  effort  to  shout  louder. 

"  Holy  Mother  o'  God,  shift  thim  blasted  boxes  into  the 
ghtore  as  I  tell  ye !  Haul  away — haul  away — haul  away  on 
that  rope,  damn  ye !  " 

He  could  not  keep  his  little  body  still.  Knowing  the 
jiame  of  every  man  who  worked  under  him,  he  Avas  every- 
where at  once,  shouting  personal  commands  and  curses  into 
their  ears,  which  rose  shrilly  above  the  snorting  of  the 
donkey-engine  that  worked  the  crane. 

Jerningham  leaned  over  the  taffrail  and  watched  him 
with  a  smile  until  Fennel  approached. 

"  They  seem  pretty  free  with  the  Mother  of  God  over 
here,"  he  said  quietly. 

Fennel  laughed — the  casual  laugh  of  one  whose  judg- 
ment knows  no  sympathy. 

"  Well — it  means  little  or  nothing  to  them  but  what  the 
priests  shove  down  their  throats." 

And  Jerningham  had  felt  inclined  to  believe  that  until 
he  met  Nanno  Troy. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THREE  days  had  passed  since  the  Pattern,  and  the  daily 
routine  which,  at  Troy's  Farm,  had  been  diverted  from  the 
ordinary  channels,  had  at  length  settled  back  again  into  its 
usual  grooves.  Bridget  had  slept  off  the  effects  of  the  holi- 
day, and  John  had  suffered  from  dull  headaches  that  for  the 
time  being  made  him  silent  and  morose.  Nearly  every  beg- 
gar had  left  the  village,  and  all  that  remained  of  the  traces 
of  the  Pattern  were  the  spotlessly  whitewashed  cottages  and 
the  carts  that  came  from  Anesk  to  fetch  away  the  empty 
bottles  from  the  various  public-houses. 

To  Xanno,  perhaps,  more  than  to  any  one,  it  had  been 
a  day  that  would  not  easily  be  forgotten.  Her  conver- 
sation with  Jerningham,  if  it  had  not  opened  up  new  possi- 
bilities in  life,  had  at  least  shown  her  a  completely  differ- 
ent state  of  existence  from  that  which  she  had  been  ac- 
customed to  from  her  birth  until  then. 

It  had  nothing  to  do  with  her;  she  knew  that.  She 
could  not  imagine  its  ever  being  more  than  a  sight  of  some- 
thing which  was  quite  beyond  her  reach ;  a  glimpse  through 
an  unsheltered  window  into  the  house  of  one  whose  fortunes 
and  customs  could  never  be  her  own.  Yet  there  it  was; 
she  had  seen  it.  She  was  not  aware  that  it  was  the  result 
of  civilization,  the  effect  of  education;  but  she  fully  real- 
ized that  it  was  different  from  anything  she  had  previously 
experienced. 

In  speaking  to  her,  as  he  had  done  on  that  night  of  the 

73 


74  TRAFFIC. 

Pattern,  Jerningham  had  seemed  to  be  considering  her  be- 
fore anything  else — before  himself. 

He  had  seen  her  shiver  and  asked  her  if  she  was  cold. 
He  had  heard  Bridget's  drunken  laughter,  and  asked  her  if 
that  had  driven  her  away  from  the  cottage.  It  was  abso- 
lutely unavoidable  that  she  should  compare  him  with  Kyan. 
They  were  the  two  men  uppermost  in  her  thoughts.  And 
the  result  of  that  comparison  was  also  inevitable. 

Jerningham,  probably,  had  never  been  drunk  in  his  life. 
She  could  not,  in  her  imagination,  conceive  him  in  that 
condition.  And  then  his  whole  manner  suggested  submis- 
sion to  her  feelings;  Ryan  compelled  the  knowledge  that 
she  would  be  his  slave.  Until  that  moment,  she  had  more 
or  less  considered  it  the  ultimate  circumstance  of  a  woman's 
life. 

All  these  thoughts  were  not  the  result  of  a  contemplation 
of  Jerningham  in  a  light  that  would  mean  anything  to 
her.  If  the  suggestion  ever  entered  her  head  that  such  a 
life  as  he  would  make  for  a  woman  could  possibly  be  her 
own,  it  was  only  in  the  form  of  the  idlest  day-dream,  that 
could  never,  by  the  remotest  chance  on  earth,  be  realized. 

Yet  there  it  remained ;  she  had  seen  another  side  of  life. 
That  as  a  common  rule  husbands  drank  and  frequently 
beat  their  wives,  she  had  taken  for  granted,  and  the  woman 
who  imbibed  herself,  generally  made  the  best  of  things. 

But  here,  was  another  condition  of  life  altogether;  one 
that  seemed  free  from  everything  that  was  sordid ;  one  that 
seemed  safe  and  guarded  from  even  that  pitiless  law  which 
she  had  seen  to  crush  the  life  of  Nancy  Foley.  She  could 
see  pity  in  it,  consideration  and  that  sympathy  which  her 
nature  felt  the  need  of ;  but  beyond  all  things,  she  knew  it 
to  be  utterly  out  of  her  reach. 

And  so,  when  three  days  after  the  Pattern  had  passed, 
and  the  ordinary  duties  had  fallen  back  again  into  their 


TRAFFIC.  75 

places,  Xanno  was  left  with  a  definite  impression  that,  for 
a  greater  part  of  her  life,  was  an  influence  which  could  not 
be  eradicated. 

On  the  Saturday  following  the  holiday,  John  Troy  had 
made  arrangements  to  cut  his  corn.  There  were  five  acres 
of  it  altogether,  and  the  arrangements  consisted  of  hiring 
a  reaper  from  some  neighboring  farmer  and  collecting  to- 
gether, by  the  inducements  of  a  barrel  of  porter,  all  the 
hands  that  he  could  possibly  get  to  help  him. 

It  was  a  matter  that  entirely  depended  on  the  weather, 
and  when  JSTanno  woke  on  that  Saturday  morning  to  find 
the  sun  streaming  through  her  bedroom  window,  investing 
with  color  even  the  dulness  of  the  uneven  mud  floor,  she 
rose  to  her  knees  in  her  bed  and  thanked  God  for  her 
father's  sake  that  the  day  was  fine. 

At  half-past  six,  before  breakfast,  they  began  and,  until 
seven  in  the  evening,  the  clattering  whirr  of  the  reaper, 
interspersed  with  John's  ejaculations  to  the  horses,  never 
ceased.  As  the  machine  passed  along  the  line  of  standing 
corn,  sweeping  the  stalks  with  its  relentless  arms  on  to  the 
unerring  knives,  the  binders  closed  in  and  picked  up  their 
portion,  binding  it  into  sheaves  with  wisps  drawn  from  the 
corn  itself.  Without  speaking,  and  with  apparent  uncon- 
sciousness, the  men  and  girls  following  the  reaper,  seemed 
at  times  to  become  part  of  the  machinery  itself.  As  regu- 
larly as  a  certain  line  of  severed  stalks  were  thrown  out  on 
to  the  ground  by  the  reaper,  so  regularly  did  a  girl  or  a  man 
come  forward  and,  silently  picking  the  heap  up  into  their 
arms,  bind  it  with  automatic  movements  into  the  sheaf. 

Slowly  and  gradually  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  pale 
yellow  of  the  corn  became  deep  in  gold  with  the  departing 
light,  the  line  of  stubble  grew  broader  and  broader,  the 
sheaves  more  numerous,  and  the  upright  stalks  more  scant. 
Still  they  worked  on,  cutting  into  the  cloth  of  gold,  leaving 


73  TRAFFIC. 

only  the  ragged  stitches  behind  them.  At  intervals,  they 
stood  erect,  resting  their  backs  when  the  reaper  had  passed 
and  their  sheaves  were  bound.  Working  at  a  distance  of 
thirty  feet  apart  down  the  whole  line,  conversation  was 
rendered  impossible.  They  none  of  them  spoke. 

Far  away  across  the  fields,  a  long  strip  of  sea  on  the 
horizon  just  showed  itself.  It  looked  like  a  ribbon  of  deep 
blue  silk,  held  taut  across  the  sky.  At  times,  when  she 
rested,  Xanno  looked  at  it  and  wondered.  It  seemed  to 
convey  to  her  all  the  other  side  of  life  that  she  had  found 
in  Jerningham.  Beyond  that  strip  of  blue,  might  easily  lie 
another  world,  where  all  things  were  constant — mercy,  pity, 
sympathy  being  the  greatest  among  them. 

She  did  not  give  way  to  these  thoughts  for  long.  There 
was  work  to  be  done,  and  God  had  sent  a  fine  day  on  which 
to  do  it. 

At  one  time,  as  she  approached  her  portion  of  fallen 
corn,  the  reaper  stopped.  One  of  the  men  was  driving  in 
Troy's  absence. 

"  What  the  hell's  that  ? "  he  asked,  looking  over  his 
shoulder. 

A  little  brown  object  lay  motionless  on  the  ground  in 
the  wake  of  the  machine.  Xanno  hurried  towards  it.  and 
then  a  cry  escaped  from  her  lips.  A  hedgehog,  overtaken 
by  the  relentless  knives,  had  been  cut  off — lacerated.  The 
scarlet  blood,  red  as  the  deepest  red  of  a  poppy,  lay  in  a 
warm  mass  on  the  mown  corn — a  blot  of  red  on  the  gold. 
Nanno  turned  away  with  a  sensation  of  nausea  and  horror 
in  her  throat. 

Seeing  what  it  was,  the  man  descended  from  his  iron 
perch  and  examined  it  roughly,  unfeelingly. 

"  Faith,  'tis  only  a  hedgehog,"  he  said,  turning  it  over 
with  his  foot.  "  Bi  gob,  he'd  be  the  fella  to  stick  the  divil 


TRAFFIC.  77 

inta  ye,  if  his  prickles  was  out.  Glory  be  to  God,  there's 
blood  for  ye !  It's  as  red  as  hell  whativer." 

Xanno  bound  up  her  sheaf  mechanically.  It  seemed  to 
her  like  the  rest  of  life — as  merciless — as  cruel.  It  was 
only  death  after  all — 'the  most  constant  and  certain  thing 
that  life  had  to  offer;  yet  even  death,  in  that  moment, 
when  the  sun  was  beating  down  on  to  the  golden  corn- 
field, when  the  sky  was  a  wealth  of  blue  and  the  larks  sang 
lustily  above  her  head,  looked  still  and  awesome  and  un- 
kind. 

When  the  man  had  passed  on  and  no  one  was  looking, 
she  carried  the  dead  creature  to  the  hedge  that  bounded 
the  field  and  laid  it  gently  in  a  corner  where  the  brambles 
grew  thickest.  It  was  the  only  way  she  could  bear  to  think 
of  it.  Then  she  went  on  with  her  work. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  day  was  over.  With  the  rest  of  the 
binders,  intent  upon  the  thought  of  their  reward,  ISTanno 
walked  back  to  the  farm.  She  waited  for  them  to  pass 
through  the  gate  into  the  yard  and,  as  she  stood  there,  she 
perceived  a  man  leaning  against  a  pillar  that  supported  the 
roof  of  one  of  the  out-houses,  talking  to  Bridget.  His  back 
was  turned  to  her,  but  she  knew  him.  It  was  Jamesy 
Evan. 

So  it  had  come  at  last.  She  knew  well  what  his  visit 
meant.  It  seemed  for  the  moment,  with  the  realization  of 
it,  that  she  could  not  stir.  All  the  others  had  passed  on 
into  the  kitchen;  but  ISTanno  could  not  move.  A  vice  that 
overpowered  her  inclinations,  held  her  there.  And  then, 
when  the  full  understanding  reached  her  mind,  she  turned 
away  from  the  gate  with  lips  that  were  cold  and  heart  that 
beat  irregularly.  Without  hesitation,  she  crossed  the  field 
at  the  back  of  the  cottage.  Without  consideration,  she 
clambered  over  the  hedge  into  the  lane  and  began  walking 
quickly  down  towards  the  main  road. 


78  TRAFFIC. 

The  only  thought  that  prompted  her  was  the  desire  to 
get  away  from  the  farm.  She  did  not  ask  in  what  direction 
she  should  go;  she  only  wanted  to  put  a  distance  between 
her  and  the  scene  which  she  had  just  witnessed. 

From  force  of  habit,  she  turned  towards  the  village  and, 
not  until  she  had  reached  the  schoolmaster's  cottage,  which 
is  the  first  habitation  as  you  enter  the  main  street,  did  she 
begin  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

Jamesy  Eyan  had  come  to  speak  about  her  marriage  to 
Bridget.  The  result  of  that  she  knew  to  be  inevitable; 
Bridget  would  give  her  consent.  A  few  months  would  go 
by,  until  next  Shrove-tide,  and  then  she  would  be  Jamesy 
Ryan's  wife.  The  thought  terrified  her;  she  felt  her  lips 
cold  again.  A  thousand  scenes  of  her  married  life  conjured 
themselves  up  in  her  mind;  each  one  was  more  terrible 
than  another.  She  remembered  the  taint  of  his  breath,  as 
it  reached  her  nostrils,  when  they  were  in  the  swings  on  the 
Pattern  night.  Vividly  she  saw  his  face  in  close  proxim- 
ity to  her  own;  unsparingly  she  imagined  the  strength  of 
his  body  and  thought  of  the  violence  of  his  arms.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with  some 
street  horror  and,  from  morbid  compulsion,  felt  driven  to 
gaze  at  its  nauseating  details. 

But  what  could  be  done?  She  could  refuse  to  marry 
him.  It  came  to  her  mind  first,  because  it  was  the  most 
obvious ;  but  she  knew  well  how  feeble  would  be  the  power 
of  her  refusal. 

Then  one  thing  occurred  to  her  and  another.  For  some 
moments  she  contemplated  running  away;  but  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  world,  with  all  that  was  unknown  in  it,  rose 
up  and  faced  her.  That  was  frightening — terrible.  At 
last,  when  every  possibility  seemed  to  be  exhausted,  Sister 
Mary  and  Sister  Ignatius  passed  her  on  their  way  from  the 
convent  to  some  sick  bed.  Her  eyes  watched  them  wonder- 


TRAFFIC.  79 

ingly.  They  were  free  from  this  horrible  side  of  life. 
Their  existence  was  one  continual  preparation  for  that 
after-state,  which  was  a  rest  from  every  ill  and  every  misery 
that  the  world  could  hold.  Heaven  was  a  very  tangible 
realization  to  Nanno  and,  at  that  moment,  it  seemed  very 
close  to  the  quiet  seclusion  of  a  convent. 

Why  should  she  not  become  a  nun  ?  The  sight  of  those 
two  quiet  figures,  with  their  long  black  veils  and  sombre 
dresses,  seemed  then  to  suggest  the  greatest  happiness  that 
life  could  offer.  If  she  became  a  nun,  all  that  coarseness  of 
existence  which  she  had  seen,  for  instance,  so  often  at  the 
Pattern,  all  that  would  be  put  far  away  from  her.  There 
was  something  secure,  something  secluded  and  safe  in  con- 
vent life.  The  more  the  thought  engrossed  her  mind,  the 
more  beautiful  it  seemed. 

At  last,  impelled  by  the  necessity  of  immediate  decision, 
she  went  into  the  chapel  where,  it  being  Saturday  evening, 
the  parish  priest  was  hearing  confession.  She  determined 
to  tell  him  at  once  that  she  had  received  a  vocation ;  and  in 
the  terror  of  her  heart  she  believed  it  to  be  true. 

Quite  a  number  of  people,  the  majority  of  whom  were 
women,  were  waiting  for  a  hearing,  repentant  of  their  fol- 
lies on  the  Pattern  day.  Like  a  lot  of  conscience-stricken 
children,  with  heads  bowed  in  their  hands  they  waited  for 
their  turn ;  well  knowing  what  would  be  said  to  them ;  well 
remembering  what  had  been  said  to  them  so  many  times 
before.  The  parish  priest  sometimes  lost  his  temper  at  the 
blind  persistence  of  their  petty  sins.  He  had  corrected 
them  so  often,  and  they  had  always  seemed  so  willing  to 
obedience,  so  attentive  to  his  advice.  Yet  every  year,  when 
the  Pattern  had  passed,  they  came  back  with  the  same  tales 
of  intemperance  and  harmless  inchastity. 

Choosing  an  empty  bench  near  the  high  altar,  Nanno 
waited  until  they  had  all  gone ;  then,  when  Father  Mehan, 


86  TRAFFIC. 

thinking  there  were  no  more  to  be  heard,  came  out  of  the 
confessional,  she  walked  softly  down  the  side  aisle  and  en- 
tered the  little  wooden  box. 

Those  sins — sins  in  her  eyes — which,  she  could  think  of 
first,  she  told ;  the  priest  listening  with  occasional  grunts  of 
gentle  reproof  or  lenient  forbearance.  Confession,  at  that 
period  of  her  life,  was  not  conceived  for  such  natures  as 
Nanno's.  Father  Mehan,  hearing  the  ticking  of  his  watch 
in  the  pocket  of  his  vest,  felt  strongly  inclined  to  tell  her 
so. 

"  An'  there's  somethin'  else  now  I  be  goin'  to  say, 
Father,"  she  said,  when  these  little  faults  were  enumerated. 

From  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  priest  inclined  his  head 
nearer  to  the  grating. 

"  An'  what's  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  after  gettin'  a  vocation  to  be  a  nun." 

For  a  moment,  even  Nanno  could  hear  the  ticking  of 
Father  Mehan's  watch. 

"  Since  when  ?  "  he  asked  at  length. 

She  paused.  Put  in  that  way  the  truth  seemed  rather 
sudden ;  but  she  told  it. 

"  Since  to-day." 

The  priest  coughed  behind  his  hand. 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  nun  in  the  convent  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  I  suppose." 

"  An'  what  put  the  ic!«a  inta  yeer  head?  " 

"  Shure,  I  dunno — shure,  I  want  to  be  a  nun." 

"  An'  will  yeer  father  give  ye  the  money." 

"  If  he  doesn't,  I  can  be  a  lay  sister.  I'm  not  afraid  o' 
doin'  work.  I  can  be  a  lay  sister." 

"  Ye  can,"  he  agreed  amiably,  "  ye  can  of  course.  An' 
so  ye  got  the  vocation  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Father." 

"When  would  ye  like  to  go  into  the  convent?/' 


TRAFFIC.  81 

K  As  soon  as  I  can." 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  suppose  that's  the  way  with  me." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ye're  afraid  of  ?  What  is  it  ye  want 
to  avoid?  Come — come — come — there's  many  a  slip  of  a 
girl  has  come  here  into  this  very  confessional  and  told  me 
with  tears  in  her  eyes  that  she  wanted  to  be  a  nun.  But 
faith,  that's  not  the  way  to  do  it  at  all.  Tears  won't  make 
a  nun  o'  ye.  Fallin'  out  with  yeer  mother  won't  make  a 
nun  o'  ye.  Isn't  it  that's  what  happened  ye,  Xanno? 
Bridget's  been  savin'  things — eh?" 

Xanno  felt  the  old  terror  returning  to  her.  She  dared 
not  tell  him  the  truth.  It  would  prove  his  point  immedi- 
ately ;  and,  without  proof,  she  knew  it  to  be  the  true  one. 
Accordingly  she  said  nothing. 

"  God  bless  us,  child ! "  he  went  on,  when  he  received 
no  answer,  "vocations  for  a  convent  don't  come  in  a  mo- 
ment, after  working  in  the  field  all  day  and  falling  out 
with  yeer  mother  in  the  evening.  Just  ye  go  back  home, 
Xanno,  and  make  yeer  mother  the  nicest  sup  o'  tea  she's 
ever  had  on  this  side  o'  the  grave,  and  faith,  ye  won't  even 
find  the  vocation  under  the  matrass  in  the  marnin' !  " 

Xanno  made  no  reply.  She  knew  what  he  said  was  true 
and,  for  the  time,  the  realization  of  this,  that  she  had  not 
really  received  a  vocation,  obliterated  the  thought  of  why 
she  had  imagined  it.  With  a  feeling  of  despair,  she  rose  to 
her  feet  and  left  the  confessional,  and  Father  Mehan, 
taking  the  stole  from  off  his  shoulders,  hung  it  up  on  a 
little  black  iron  peg  behind  him;  and  there  was  a  comical 
smile  of  sympathy  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
6 


CHAPTER  X. 

IT  was  some  time  before  Xanno  could  bring  herself  to  go 
home.  She  walked  as  far  as  the  bottom  of  Troy's  Lane 
and  there  she  stopped.  The  light  in  the  back  window  of 
the  kitchen  just  glimmered  through  the  clump  of  fuchsia 
shrubs.  By  some  magic  of  its  own,  it  conjured  up  in  her 
imagination  a  picture  of  the  interior.  She  saw  the  shim- 
mering firelight  that  danced  in  points  of  orange  on  the 
polished  surfaces  of  the  brass  candle-sticks  that  stood  on 
the  shelf  over  the  hen-coop.  She  saw  the  rows  of  willow- 
pattern  plates  that  ranged  the  dresser.  This  was  the 
kitchen  that  had  been  Xanno's  view  of  life  for  nineteen 
years.  Xow,  as  she  painted  it  for  herself,  the  picture  filled 
her  with  a  shuddering  sense  of  foreboding.  Jamesy  Eyan 
was  sitting  there  on  the  table.  John  occupied  his  three- 
legged  stool  by  the  fire,  and  Bridget,  with  her  arms  folded 
over  the  ample  proportions  of  her  breast,  was  standing  with 
legs  apart  in  the  center  of  the  room.  They  were  all  talking 
of  her.  A  process  of  bartering,  preliminary  to  the  seeking 
of  a  solicitor,  was  going  on  for  her  body  and  soul.  Had 
the  man  been  any  other  than  Jamesy  Ryan,  she  would  not 
have  considered  it  in  that  light.  The  custom  was  too  com- 
mon in  those  parts  to  ever  call  for  attention  from  those 
most  intimately  concerned.  Yet  with  Jamesy  Ryan,  the 
sum  of  her  dowry  rose  up  in  exalted  prominence  in  her 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  greatest  factor  in  the 
whole  matter,  the  price  of  her  happiness,  the  cost  of  her 
content. 

83 


TRAFFIC.  83 

It  was  not  that  she  had  any  fixed  ideas  ahout  marriage. 
She  knew  it  was  her  duty  to  her  parents  to  relieve  them  of 
her  responsibility;  and,  so  long  as  the  man  had  not  been 
actually  repulsive  to  her,  she  would  not  have  thought  of  it. 

But  to  be  the  wife  of  Jamesy  Eyan ;  to  share  his  life,  his 
fortune,  and  his  bed  with  him;  both  her  body  and  mind 
shrank,  like  a  frightened  child,  from  the  idea. 

For  some  moments,  she  watched  the  steady  glimmer  of 
the  light  through  the  trees.  It  was  all  a  supposition  that 
Eyan  was  still  there,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  even 
to  go  up  the  lane  and  ascertain  whether  it  were  true.  At 
last,  she  turned  along  the  road  to  Anesk.  There  was  no 
definite  intention  in  her  mind  as  to  when  she  would  come 
back.  Her  only  desire  was  to  be  by  herself  as  long  as  she 
dared. 

It  was  scarcely  eight  o'clock,  but  the  night  was  as  dark 
as  it  well  could  be.  Occasionally,  from  the  side  of  the  road, 
disturbed  by  the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  a  donkey  or  a 
goat,  their  legs  inhumanely  spanselled,  would  hobble  out 
of  the  darkness.  The  uneven  clattering  of  their  feet,  like 
the  rattle  of  gigantic  dice  in  a  gigantic  box,  would  sound 
for  some  time  after  they  were  out  of  sight.  She  called 
gently  to  each  one  of  them  reassuring!}- ;  but  they  had  been 
called  to  reassuringly  before,  and  suffered  for  their  mis- 
placed confidence. 

Xot  until  she  had  reached  the  road  that  leads  to  the 
Anesk  ferry,  did  she  stop ;  and  then,  the  noise  of  her  own 
footsteps  having  ceased  for  the  moment,  she  heard  in  the 
distance,  coming  from  Eathmore,  the  sound  of  a  horse  and 
the  rumble  of  a  car.  Xearer  and  nearer  it  came  until, 
with  the  intense  stillness  of  everything  else,  it  seemed  like 
the  roll  of  thunder.  The  noise  of  it  strung  up  her  nerves. 
She  wished  it  would  pass  and  go  away  into  the  quiet  of  the 
night  again. 


8-t  TRAFFIC. 

At  last  the  horse's  head  came  into  view ;  the  horse's  head, 
its  body,  and  the  car  itself,  all  jumbled  up  into  one  con- 
fused mass  in  the  darkness.  When  it  was  a  little  nearer, 
she  was  able  to  distinguish  the  driver — Tom  Fitzgerald, 
one  of  the  two  car-owners  in  Rathmore — and  the  figure  of 
another  man  seated  opposite  to  him.  The  outline  of  the 
second  man  seemed  familiar  and,  as  they  passed,  she  recog- 
nized Jerningham.  A  trunk  was  lashed  to  the  footboard 
under  the  driver's  seat,  and  he  held  a  small  leather  bag 
with  his  hand  on  to  the  cushion  that  covered  the  well  of 
the  car.  He  was  going  away  then.  He  was  going  back  to 
England. 

"  Hi  there ! "  Fitzgerald  called  out,  as  they  came  level 
with  her. 

She  moved  back  a  step  to  let  the  car  pass,  and  Jerning- 
ham bent  down  as  they  went  by,  to  see  who  or  what  it  was. 
Then,  just  as  Fitzgerald  whipped  up  the  horse  again  into  a 
trot,  he  called  out  to  him  to  stop  and,  jumping  down  from 
his  seat,  came  back  along  the  road  to  where  she  was  stand- 
ing. 

"  Isn't  that  Nanno  Troy  ?  "  he  asked.    She  saw  his  eyes 
screwed  up  in  the  endeavor  to  distinguish  her. 
-  "  It  is,  sir,"  she  said. 

"By  jove!  I  was  looking  about  for  you  to-day,  to  say 
good-bye.  I'm  off  back  to  England." 

She  said  nothing.  He  was  going  back  to  England.  She 
had  been  quite  right. 

"  What  brings  you  out  here  ?  "  he  went  on.  "  I  always 
seem  to  find  you  wandering  about  alone." 

"  Maybe  'tis  the  way  I  like  bein'  alone — I  dunno.  'Tisn't 
everybody  can  be  alone  when  they  want  to." 

"  That's  a  very  serious  observation." 

"D'ye  think  so?" 

"It  sounds  like  it;  but  I'm  beginning  to  expect  them 


TRAFFIC.  85 

from  you.  Do  you  remember  that  evening  when  I  was  try- 
ing to  shoot  rabbits ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  You  made  a  serious  observation  then." 

"Did  I?" 

"  You  said  every  one  wasn't  alike  except  men,  when  they 
wanted  to  kill  something." 

The  words  came  back  suddenly  into  her  memory.  She 
looked  at  him,  amazed  that  they  had  remained  so  long  in 
his  thoughts. 

"  Ye  have  a  good  memory  for  things,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Begorra — ye'll  be  late  for  the  thrain,  Mr.  Jerning- 
ham,"  Fitzgerald  called  out  from  the  darkness.  They 
heard  him  expectorate  impatiently. 

Jerningham  looked  at  Xanno.  The  thought  came  into 
both  their  minds  at  the  same  moment.  Why  should  she 
not  drive  in  with  him  to  Anesk  ?  She  saw  it  in  his  eyes : 
but  so  faint,  so  indefinite  was  the  idea  to  her,  that  he  saw 
no  reflection  of  it  as  she  answered  his  look. 

"  Aisy,  ye  divil !  "  Fitzgerald  could  be  heard  saying  under 
his  breath  and  then,  in  louder  voice,  his  face  turned  evi- 
dently in  their  direction :  "  Begorra,  Mr.  Jerningham,  sorr 
— ye'll  be  afther  losin'  that  thrain." 

Jerningham  stirred  uneasily  and  looked  back  at  the  car. 
"  Why  shouldn't  you  drive  into  Anesk  with  me  ?  "  he  said, 
with  sudden  impulse.  "  Fitzgerald  can  bring  you  back 
again." 

He  took  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the  car;  then,  seeing 
her  hesitation,  he  stopped.  "  Don't  mind  saying  if  you 
think  you  ought  not  to,"  he  added  quietly. 

She  had  hesitated  certainly,  but  her  mind  was  made  up. 
Every  existing  circumstance  forced  her  to  the  decision. 
She  knew  what  was  awaiting  her  when  she  returned  home. 
She  realized  that  this  was  the  last  she  would  see  of  the  man 


86  TRAFFIC. 

who,  unconsciously — solely  from  the  view  of  life  which  he 
had  shown  her — had  formed  an  incident  in  her  existence 
which  she  knew  she  would  be  unable  to  forget. 

Then,  too,  there  is  an  instinct  in  human  nature  which 
compels  us  to  accept  the  generosity  of  circumstance.  To 
ISTanno  it  seemed  that  circumstance  was  generous  then. 
The  Juggernaut  of  her  destiny  was  not  so  far  off  that  she 
could  afford  to  forego  one  last  taste  of  the  sun.  Without 
questioning  the  wisdom  of  what  she  did,  she  followed  Jer- 
ningham  to  the  car. 

"  We're  going  to  take  Nanno  into  Anesk,  Tom,"  he  said 
lightly.  "  You'd  better  climb  on  to  the  box  seat.  Can  you 
get  your  feet  over  that  trunk  ?  " 

"Begorra,  I  can,  sorr." 

He  glanced  quickly  at  Nanno.  She  understood  the  look, 
but  Jerningham  did  not  even  see  it. 

"Well,  come  along.  Up  you  get,  Nanno;  there's  very 
little  time  to  spare." 

She  climbed  up  mechanically  into  the  seat  left  vacant 
by  Fitzgerald  and  then,  when  Jerningham  was  settled 
again,  they  drove  off. 

How  it  rattled  and  jolted — that  car !  Every  stone  that 
it  passed  over  in  the  darkness,  every  hollow  in  the  road 
that  it  crossed,  seemed  as  though  it  would  be  the  last  strain 
that  the  springs  could  resist.  Fitzgerald,  with  his  left  ear 
inclined  towards  ISTanno's  direction,  tried  vainly  to  catch 
what  they  were  saying.  His  curiosity  was  thoroughly 
aroused — even  he  would  have  admitted  that  himself — but 
only  a  stray  word  here  and  there  reached  his  ears.  It  would 
probably  have  been  better  had  he  heard  everything.  Give 
curiosity  a  word  and  leave  the  sentence  to  its  imagination 
and  the  result  is  apt  to  be  dangerous.  Yet  what  they  talked 
of,  the  whole  world  might  have  heard.  Nanno  did  not  try 
to  make  conversation.  Her  mind  was  too  full  of  number- 


TRAFFIC.  8? 

less  considerations  that  seemed  over-burdened  with  impor- 
tance, overloaded  with  concern. 

For  moments  together  she  said  nothing.  As  the  trees, 
like  witches  with  tattered  garments,  passed  by  them  in  the 
blackness;  as  the  road  stretched  out  behind,  a  dim  gray 
channel  in  the  almost  impenetrable  night,  she  felt  more  and 
more  afraid  to  return  to  that  state  of  life  which  she  knew 
was  being  prepared  for  her.  Every  word  that  Jerningham 
said,  made  a  contrast  in  her  mind :  every  expression  of  his 
voice,  a  comparison. 

"  You're  very  quiet,  Xanno,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  looked  away  steadily  beyond  the  horse's  head  that, 
with  every  step,  rose  and  fell  like  an  automatic  contrivance, 
until  it  seemed  to  be  dancing  before  her  eyes.  The  iron- 
shod  hoofs  played  a  monotonous  tattoo  upon  the  hard  road 
that  fitted  in  its  time  with  the  uneven  beating  of  her  pulse. 

"This  time  to-morrow  I  shall  be  in  London,"  he  con- 
tinued, endeavoring  to  interest  her. 

"Ye'll  be  glad  to  be  away  out  o'  this  place,"  she  said, 
half  in  question,  half  assertively.  "  'Tis  too  quiet,  it  is." 

"But  that's  the  beauty  of  it— that's  the  beauty  of  it. 
Don't  3'ou  know  it's  the  things  we  don't  get  in  this  world, 
that  we  want.  If  you'd  had  thirty  years  of  London,  as  I 
have — thirty  years  of  noise  without  cessation — thirty  years 
of  perpetual  motion — thirty  years  of  trafficking  with  men 
and  women  and  carts  and  omnibuses,  you'd  think  you'd  got 
to  heaven  when  you  reached  Eathmore." 

She  glanced  swiftly  at  him  while  he  was  not  looking. 

"  Then  you're  sorry  to  be  leavin'  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  should  think  I  was.  I  never  came  across  a  place 
more  cut  out  for  a  holiday — an  absolute  rest — in  all  my 
life.  It's  been  such  a  complete  change,  you  see.  I  never 
thought  the  world  had  anything  so  simple  left  to  look  at.. 


88  TRAFFIC. 

Do  you  remember  when  I  saw  you  up  at  the  holy  well  on 
the  Pattern  day  ?  " 

Nanno  nodded  her  head. 

"  Well — you  gave  me  an  impression  that  I'd  never  had 
before." 

"  An'  what  was  that  ?  " 

"  Oh — I  don't  know.  It's  more  or  less  inexplicable.  I 
didn't  know  that  people  believed  in  things  as  I  could  see 
you  did." 

"  'Twas  what  I  was  brought  up  to." 

"  Of  course — I  know  that ;  but  there  are  so  few  people 
who  do  believe  what  they're  brought  up  to  nowadays." 

And  this,  more  or  less,  was  the  strain  of  his  conver- 
sation. Xanno  listened  attentively,  she  answered  atten- 
tively; but  it  was  attention  that  was  almost  mechanical. 
She  heard  everything  he  said  with  the  same  degree  of  sensa- 
tion that  she  watched  the  lights  of  Anesk,  like  fireflies 
meshed  in  a  black  tangle  of  copse,  growing  nearer  and 
nearer  across  the  river  Blackwater  as  they  approached  the 
bridge  that  spans  the  entrance  of  the  water  to  the  sea.  It 
interested  her  to  be  talked  to  like  that ;  but  the  needs  of  her 
nature  predominated.  She  wanted  sympathy,  she  wanted 
pity.  She  felt  utterly  alone.  And  soon,  when  they 
reached  Anesk,  he  would  be  gone  and  she  would  be  still 
more  alone.  With  the  thought  of  that,  she  concentrated 
her  interest  more  closely  on  what  he  was  saying.  They 
were  the  last  words  she  would  hear  him  say.  She  tried 
to  make  herself  remember  that. 

At  length,  when  they  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  passed 
the  few  straggling  rows  of  cottages  outside  the  town, 
Anesk  was  reached.  It  was  still  some  distance  to  the  sta- 
tion, but  Nanno  said  she  would  get  down  there.  A  feeling 
of  sensitiveness,  forbade  her  from  allowing  him  to  be  seen 


TRAFFIC.  89 

with  her  in  the  streets,  where  there  might  be  many  who 
knew  her  by  sight. 

"  Shure,  Tom  can  fetch  me  here  when  he  comes  back," 
she  said,  as  she  dismounted. 

"  Good-bye  then,  Nanno,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Good-bye,  sir,"  she  replied. 

"  I  shall  probably  be  in  Eathmore  again  next  year." 

She  nodded  her  head  mechanically.  It  seemed  to  mean 
nothing  to  her.  The  present  outweighed  the  future  just 
then,  and  that,  she  felt,  was  slipping  away  from  her.  She 
had  not  expected  anything  else,  and  yet,  so  commonplace, 
so  ordinary  had  everything  seemed,  that  she  knew  she  was 
disappointed. 

The  car  started  again  and  she  turned  away  to  look  in 
the  window  of  a  shop.  A  lump  had  risen  in  her  throat. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath ;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment she  swayed  unsteadily. 


CHAPTER  XL 

IT  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  Nanno  left  the  car  that 
night  at  the  bottom  of  Troy's  Lane.  All  the  questions 
that  Fitzgerald  put  to  her  about  Jerningham — and  they 
were  asked  with  a  crafty  astuteness  that  was  amazing — she 
answered  with  a  reticence  that  guarded  itself  with  mono- 
syllables. 

"  He's  a  damned  fine  gintleman !  " 

She  had  not  replied. 

"Begorra,  he's  got  the  divil's  own  journey  in  front  of 
him ! " 

"  He  has." 

"  I  suppose  he's  afther  tellin'  ye  he  was  goin'  to  Lon- 
don?" 

"  To  London,  is  it  ?  " 

Fitzgerald  had  resorted  to  his  habit  of  expectoration — a 
habit  that  was  customary  with  him  whenever  he  was  per- 
plexed. 

"  Bi  dad,  'twas  a  queer  thing  his  askin'  ye  to  sit  up  along- 
side of  him  on  the  car." 

Again  she  had  remained  silent. 

"  Maybe  'twas  havin'  a  bit  o'  fun  wid  himself,  he  was." 

There  was  the  inflection  of  a  question  in  every  remark; 
though  not  so  obvious  as  to  compel  an  answer. 

"  Some  fellas  are  rare  divils  for  gettin'  a  howlt  o'  girrls 
out  o'  the  country."  She  had  felt  his  side  glance  in  her 
direction.  "  Begorra,  though,  he's  a  fine  gintleman — an 
'tis  not  the  way  he'd  be  doin'  any  harm  whativer." 

90 


TRAFFIC.  91 

This  was  said  reassuringly,  as  though,  presuming  that 
N"anno  had  allowed  Jerningham  to  take  liberties  with  her, 
he  wanted  to  set  her  mind  at  rest.  The  insinuation  had 
almost  drawn  a  remark  from  her,  but  she  controlled  herself 
in  time. 

"  We'd  a  fine  day  for  the  reapin',"  she  had  said,  trying 
to  turn  the  current  of  conversation  altogether. 

"  Begorra,  I  suppose  ye  had,  an'  faith,  he'll  have  a  foine 
crossin'  goin'  over  to-night.  Young  Mr.  Fennel  was  tellin' 
me  that  a  power  o'  money  goes  through  his  hands  every 
day.  Begorra,  if  it  came  through  mine  I'd  soon  have  me 
fisht  on  it — I  would  so." 

Nanno  had  found  it  useless  to  change  the  topic,  and  so, 
until  he  set  her  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  lane,  she  had 
shielded  herself  with  evasive  answers  that  helped  in  no 
way  to  satisfy  his  curiosity. 

The  light  was  still  burning  in  the  kitchen.  She  watched 
it  fearsomely  as  she  walked  up  the  lane.  Some  one  was 
waiting  up  until  her  return,  and  she  dreaded  the  thought 
that  it  was  Bridget.  Passing  softly  through  the  iron  gate, 
she  stopped  with  sudden  hesitation  as  she  approached  the 
kitchen  door.  A  dull  mumbling  of  voices  reached  her  ears, 
above  which  she  could  distinguish  the  guttural  tones  of 
John  Troy.  They  were  saying  the  rosary.  After  a  mo- 
ment, when  she  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  sound,  she 
was  able  to  make  out  both  Patsy's  and  Johnny's  voices  as 
they  repeated  the  Bail  Marys  in  tired,  monotonous  tones. 
Placing  her  ear  against  the  latch  of  the  door,  a  moment 
of  relief  brought  a  sigh  to  her  lips.  Bridget's  voice  was 
not  amongst  them.  Then,  bending  silently  to  her  knees, 
she  repeated  with  them  inside  the  last  decade  of  the 
rosary. 

"  Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace,  the  Lord  is  with  thee :  blessed 
art  thou  among  women,  and  blessed  is  the  fruit  of  thy 
womb — Jesus -" 


93  TRAFFIC. 

The  deep  notes  of  John  Troy's  voice  rolled  the  words  out 
in  subdued  reverence  and,  with  the  others,  her  lips  moving 
silently,  she  answered : 

"  Holy  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  pray  for  us  sinners  now 
and  at  the  hour  of  our  death.  Amen.'' 

As  she  said  the  last  words,  alone  there  in  the  yard,  the 
cohbles  of  the  path  grinding  hard  against  her  knees,  the 
night  clouds  hovering  in  the  black  vault  of  the  sky,  it  came 
into  her  mind  to  wonder  when  would  be  the  hour  of  her 
death :  whether  it  would  come  swiftly,  like  a  sudden  gift, 
or  tortuously,  slowly,  with  dragging  steps,  the  sound  of 
which  grew  gradually  louder  and  louder  as  they  ap- 
proached. That  it  might  be  swift,  she  asked;  and  then, 
rising  to  her  feet,  she  pushed  the  door  gently  open  and  en- 
tered the  kitchen. 

In  the  act  of  regaining  his  seat  on  the  three-legged  stool, 
John  Troy  looked  up. 

"  God  bless  us,  choild,  where  have  ye  been  ?  "  he  asked, 
and  Johnny  and  Patsy  stood  round  with  expectant  faces 
to  hear  her  answer. 

"  Herself's  afther  going  to  bed  this  half-hour,"  he  added. 

"  What  did  she  say  about  me  not  comin'  in  ?  " 

"  Shure,  I  dunno.  What  would  she  be  sayin'  ?  "  But 
where  have  ye  been  ?  " 

"  'Twas  the  way  the  night  was  fine,  an'  I  was  tired  afther 
the  reapin'.  I  was  out,  that  was  all." 

"  But  what  about  your  tea  ?  " 

"  Shure,  I'm  not  wantin'  any." 

She  sat  down  on  the  form  under  the  chimney  and.  for 
a  moment  or  so,  John  watched  her  face;  then,  seeing  the 
two  boys  standing  expectantly  by,  he  turned  on  them. 

"  Go  to  bed  out  o'  that,  ye  young  divils — go  to  bed ;  " 
and,  disappointedly,  they  stole  away,  taking  as  long  over 
their  departure  as  they  dared. 


TRAFFIC.  93 

John  waited  until  they  had  closed  the  door  behind  them ; 
then,  ramming  a  horny  finger  into  the  bowl  of  the  pipe 
which  he  was  smoking,  he  sat  round  on  the  stool  and  gazed 
at  Xanuo. 

With  eyes  that  stared  vacantly  before  her  at  the  glowing 
cinders  in  the  grate,  she  was  turning  the  bellows  wheel 
automatically,  the  leather  belt  clattering  loosely  in  time  to 
the  motion  of  her  arm. 

"  There's  been  some  talk  about  ye  here  while  ye  were 
abroad,"  he  said  at  length. 

"  'Bout  me  ?  "     She  looked  up. 

"  Ay — 'bout  ye  marrin'." 

"Who?" 

"  Jamesy  Evan." 

Xanno  shut  her  eyes. 

"  That  brute  of  a  fella  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  with  sudden  im- 
pulse. 

John  looked  at  her  in  mild  amazement.  He  did  not  like 
the  man  himself;  but  he  was  one  like  many  another,  and 
he  had  a  farm  of  his  own. 

"  He's  hard-workin',  however." 

Xanno  raked  down  some  cold  cinders  on  to  the  blaze, 
and  turned  the  wheel  vehemently. 

"  When  he's  not  had  too  much  drink  taken,  maybe.  But 
I've  never  seen  him  sober  yet — I  have  not." 

John  looked  at  her  perplexed. 

"  But,  God  bless  us,  choild,  ye  want  to  marry  some  day !  " 

"  I  do  not." 

For  a  moment  John  was  silenced  by  the  directness  of  her 
answer.  He  did  not  know  how  to  reply. 

"  Then  what'll  ye  be  doin'  when  Patsy  grows  up,  in  the 
name  o'  God  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer. 


94  TRAFFIC. 

"  Faith,  an'  how  about  meself  ?  Is  it  the  way  ye  think 
I  can  afford  to  be  keepin'  ye  ?  " 

He  did  not  say  it  unkindly.  From  every  point  of  view 
it  seemed  to  him  the  rightful,  the  only  attitude  to  adopt. 

She  looked  across  the  fire  at  him. 

"  But  I  hate  the  man,"  she  said. 

"Begorra,  an'  what's  that  to  do  with  it?  There's  not 
much  difference  between  him  an'  other  men  what  I  ever 
see." 

Nanno  thought  of  Jerningham. 

"  Not  much  difference  i  "  she  repeated. 

John  scratched  his  head. 

"  Well,  herself's  afther  patchin'  things  up  wid  him. 
Shure — I  dunno." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"Well,  they're  afther  settlin'  it  between  'hemselves. 
Faith,  I  hadn't  much  to  say  to  it.  Herself's  a  greater 
hand  at  managin'  figures  than  what  I  am.  Begorra,  he 
wanted  three  hundhred  wid  ye — he  did  so;  but  she  bate 
him  down  till  there  was  divil  a  leg  for  him  to  stand  on,  an' 
he  took  two  hundhred  and  thirty-wan  like  a  pig  takin' 
male." 

N"anno  listened  tremblingly  to  all  this.  She  knew  from 
the  beginning  that  it  was  her  mother  with  whom  she  would 
ultimately  have  to  deal.  If  they  could  spare  two  hundred 
and  thirt}r-one  pounds  as  a  dowry  on  her  wedding  day,  there 
was  no  doubt  that  they  could  afford  to  keep  her  for  at 
least  three  or  four  more  years.  Then  she  could  go  into 
service :  at  any  rate,  relieve  them  of  her  responsibility.  Be- 
yond that,  she  did  not  feel  it  her  duty  to  go. 

"  'Tis  this  is  the  way  with  me,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I 
don't  want  to  be  married  at  all,  and  faith,  if  I  did,  it 
wouldn't  be  to  Jamesy  Eyan.  An'  ye  can  tell  her  that 
if  ye  like.  There's  no  call  for  her  to  be  batin'  Jamesy 


TRAFFIC.  95 

Ryan  down  at  a  bargain,  'cos  there's  one  side  o'  the  bargain 
that  don't  count — an'  that's  the  way  wid  me." 

She  said  this  assertively,  defiantly,  but  the  tears  of  her 
despair  were  very  near  her  eyes. 

John  rose  in  a  state  of  bewilderment  to  his  feet.  He 
had  never  contemplated  these  objections  and,  when  he  met 
them,  the  simplicity  of  his  nature  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  cope  with  them. 

Knocking  the  burnt-out  ashes  from  his  pipe,  he  turned 
away  to  the  bedroom  door  which  was  opposite  the  fire- 
place. What  Bridget  would  say,  he  could  only  vaguely 
imagine.  Whatever  it  was,  he  knew  it  would  be  fiery  and 
incensed. 

Nanno  did  not  move  from  her  scat  in  the  chimney  cor- 
ner. She  watched  him  go  into  the  bedroom.  She  watched 
him  shut  the  door,  then  her  eyes  turned  again  to  the  fire. 
Beside  all  her  fears  of  the  inevitable  scene  with  Bridget, 
there  rose  the  remembrance  of  what  had  been  happening 
over  the  last  few  hours. 

By  that  time  Jerningham  was  probably  on  his  way  to 
Dublin.  She  saw  him  plainly  in  her  mind.  And  then  she 
began  to  wonder  why  he  had  asked  her  to  drive  into  Anesk 
with  him. 

The  fire  became  more  dim,  more  lifeless;  the  shadows 
began  to  creep  round  her,  as  it  slowly  died  out.  Sleep 
was  just  commencing  to  dull  her  senses,  when  she  heard 
a  sudden  exclamation  from  Bridget's  room. 

Immediately  she  sat  up  and  listened.  They  were  talk- 
ing inside.  Bridget's  voice  was  rising  with  every  word. 

"  The  divil  trust  her !  "  she  heard  her  mother  exclaim ; 
then  the  door  of  the  room  flew  open,  crashing  against  the 
kitchen  dresser  and  shaking  all  the  willow  pattern  plates 
and  the  old  brass  candlesticks,  like  a  storm  that  had  sprung 
up  in  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"  HOLY  mother  o'  God !  So  that's  the  way  ye  think  ye 
can  trate  honest,  dacint  people !  Begorra,  those  children 
that  are  not  right  from  big'ning,  'tis  mighty  hard  to  man- 
age 'em ! " 

Bridget  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  strode,  trembling 
with  anger,  into,  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  had  risen 
from  the  bed,  just  as  she  was,  arrayed  only  in  her  pink 
flannel  nightgown.  It  was  scarcely  a  becoming  garment; 
it  had  not  even  the  attraction  of  being  clean.  But  she 
did  not  mind  that.  It  never  entered  her  head  to  consider 
it.  Her  hair  fell  loosely  in  greasy,  clotted  masses  over  her 
shoulders.  She  looked  like  a  fury  consumed  with  dia- 
bolical rage.  The  button  at  the  neck  of  her  nightgown  was 
missing,  and  the  white  skin  of  her  breast  struck  incon- 
gruous contrast  with  the  flushed  and  coarser  color  of  her 
face.  Her  feet  were  bare.  She  had  not  even  put  on  a  pair 
of  shoes  to  cover  their  uncleanliness.  ISfanno  shuddered 
as  she  looked  at  her. 

"  What  the  hell  d'ye  mane  by  sayin'  ye  won't  be  afther 
marryin'  Jamesy  Eyan  ?  " 

"  I  mane  that  I  won't,  an'  that's  simple  enough." 

Bridget  folded  her  arms.  It  was  her  characteristic  atti- 
tude when  she  adopted  combat.  In  just  such  a  pose,  Nanno 
had  seen  her  talking  to  Jamesy  Eyan  that  afternoon. 

"  Where  have  ye  been  this  evenin'  ?  " 

96 


TRAFFIC.  97 

Xanno  made  no  reply. 

"  Where  have  ye  been  ? — answer  ine !  " 

"  What's  that  matter  to  ye  ?  Maybe  I've  been  where  I 
didn't  hear  women  makin'  shame  o'  themselves  as  ye're 
doin'." 

This  was  almost  the  last  struggle  of  Xanno's  courage 
of  despair ;  but  it  stung  her  mother  to  the  quick.  Behind 
the  words,  she  felt  that  sense  of  superiority  in  her  child, 
which  brought  the  worst  out  of  her. 

With  glittering  eyes,  she  approached  Xanno  with  a  cat- 
like motion,  bending  down,  like  a  witch  in  the  moment  of 
incantation,  so  that  the  coarse  outlines  of  her  body,  the 
heavy  hips  and  disproportionate  limbs,  showed  revoltingly 
through  the  opening  of  the  flannel  shift. 

"  Yirra,  d'ye  think  I  don't  know  damn  well  where  ye've 
been  ?  The  deuce  o'  fear  I  do." 

The  words  came  from  between  her  lips  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per of  rage.  Xanno  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  then 
turned  away  her  head  in  disgust  and  fear. 

"  Ye've  been  wid  that  Mr.  Jerningham  from  Fennel's 
over  ?  " 

She  put  the  question  with  cunning  assertiveness,  but  it 
was  only  a  guess  based  upon  instinct.  The  remembrance 
of  her  own  folly  and  the  fact  that  she  had  been  told  of 
Xanno's  standing  at  the  gate  with  him  on  the  night  of  the 
Pattern,  prompted  her. 

Xanno  hung  her  head.  It  wa-s  not  from  shame  or  con- 
fusion; but  directly  Bridget  saw  the  action,  she  construed 
it  to  be  one  or  the  other  and  knew  that  her  surmise  was 
correct.  This  only  made  her  temper  the  more  vile,  the 
more  bitter.  It  lashed  her  into  a  froth  of  fury.  She  pos- 
sessed a  fair  judgment  of  human  nature  in  her  way;  but 
there  was  always  one  grievous  error  that  made  most  of  her 
calculations  false.  She  based  every  supposition  upon  her 
7 


98  TRAFFIC. 

own  standpoint,  which,  while  it  might  be  vitally  true  of  Her- 
self, was  a  dangerous  and  inaccurate  way  of  judging  others. 

As  soon  as  Nanno  by  her  silence  admitted  that  she  had 
been  with  Jerningham,  Bridget  rushed  to  her  conclusion. 

With  hands  that  were  hot  and  wet,  she  seized  Nanno's 
wrist  and  shook  her  violently. 

"  Ye  blasted  little  ! "  she  hissed,  with  rage  over 

which  her  control  was  utterly  lost. 

Nanno  dragged  herself  vehemently  away,  and  a  cry  of 
horror  and  shame  that  was  subdued  with  its  intensity  came 
from  between  her  lips.  She  shrank  into  the  chimney- 
corner. 

"  Faith,  I  guessed  as  much,"  she  went  on,  "  when  him- 
self told  me  ye  wouldn't  marry  Jamesy  Eyan.  God  blast 
ye !  I  wouldn't  doubt  ye !  Didn't  I  tell  ye  it  was  only 
thrying  to  make  a  fool  o'  ye  he  was !  Didn't  I  know  well 
what  he'd  be  afther  in  ye — the  filthy,  durrty  baste,  deuce 
take  him !  Glory  be  to  God !  He  was  fine  and  full  o' 
promises  I  suppose;  an'  he  was  so  pressin' — he  was,  av 
course.  Shure,  that's  the  way  wid  those."  She  minced 
her  words  in  biting  sarcasm. 

And  Nanno  was  dumb.  She  could  only  gaze  at  her 
mother  in  horrified  amazement.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
words  that  she  could  find  to  reply.  And  the  longer  she 
maintained  her  silence,  the  more  Bridget  believed  herself 
to  be  right.  With  unconscious  irony  she  related  the  whole 
of  her  fraility  with  the  English  artist,  and  applied  it  to 
the  case  with  which  she  dealt.  There  was  no  hesitation 
in  her  abuse  of  Nanno,  though  it  all  redounded  upon  her- 
self ;  and,  seeing  that  Nanno  still  kept  silent,  she  went  on, 
taking  a  keen  and  cruel  delight  in  painting  the  whole  pic- 
ture in  vivid  and  awful  colors  before  the  girl's  frightened 
eyes. 

"  Faith,  there's  a  drop  o'  bad  blood  in  ye,  an',  begorra, 


TRAFFIC.  99 

I  know  where  it  comes  from.  God  bless  us !  An'  to  think 
that  ye,  wid  all  yeer  quiet  ways,  'ud  go  an'  let  that  durrty 
foreigner  play  his  filthy  game  wid  ye,  a  dacint  honest  girrl. 
Yirra,  that  settles  it  now !  Ye'll  be  havin'  to  marry  Jamesy 
Ryan,  whether  ye  like  ut  or  not,  to  save  yeerself.  Ye  will 
so.  Ye  come  of  a  kind  that  breeds  easily — did  ye  know 
that  ?  Begorra,  'twas  a  pity  ye  didn't  think  of  it  in  time." 

"It's  a  lie!" 

The  words  rushed  out  of  ISTanno's  lips  with  a  violence 
that  had  been  growing  gradually  in  force  and  vehemence 
during  her  prolonged  silence.  In  all  that  Bridget  had  said, 
she  had  been  slowly  realizing  the  fineness  of  Jerningham's 
character.  If  men  were  like  that ;  if  in  every  man  lay  the 
uncontrollable  bestial  desire  for  a  woman,  then  Jamesy 
Eyan  was  surely  one  of  them;  but  Jerningham  was  not. 
And  when  at  last  she  did  speak,  the  words  were  prompted 
more  in  defence  of  him  than  of  herself. 

"  It's  all  a  horrible  lie  !  "  she  repeated. 

At  first  Bridget  would  not  believe  her.  She  tossed  back 
her  head  and  laughed,  so  that  her  body  shook. 

"  D'ye  think  I'm  goin'  to  believe  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Shure,  I  don't  care  whether  ye  believe  it  or  don't," 
said  Xanno  bitterly ;  "  'tis  the  truth,  however.  'Twas  only 
the  way  yeer  own  mind  thought  of  it." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Bridget  was  perplexed.  She  could 
not  realize  that,  after  all,  she  had  been  in  the  wrong. 

"  Wisha,  God  help  us  then !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  in 
hell's  name  won't  ye  marry  Jamesy  Eyan  ?  " 

"  There's  no  call  for  me  to  be  marryin'  a  man  I  don't 
like.  'Tis  a  shame  for  ye  to  be  makin'  me." 

"  Makin'  ye  ?    An'  isn't  it  yeer  duty  to  yeer  father  ?  " 

(<  'Tis  not  me  duty  to  any  one  to  be  marryin'  a  man  that 
drinks  as  Jamesy  Eyan  does.  I  wouldn't  trust  him." 

"  Yirra,  ye're  gettin'  mighty  particular.    Where's  a  man 


100  TRAFFIC, 

in  Rathmore  that  doesn't  dhrink?  Shure,  if  one  o'  thim 
found  a  shillin'  under  a  shtone,  dey'd  go  an'  drink  it. 
Goin'  bi  that,  ye'd  never  be  married  at  all." 

"  An'  maybe  that  would  suit  me  best  afther  all." 

Bridget  looked  at  her  incredulously.  The  fierce  rage 
that  was  seething  within  her  had  so  far  been  kept  in  check 
by  her  astonishment.  That  Nanno  should  hold  out  against 
marrying,  when  the  opportunity  came  in  her  way,  was  more 
than  Bridget  could  understand.  She  seemed  to  overlook 
the  fact  that  Nanno  did  not  know  the  circumstances  of  her 
birth,  and  only  judged  her  as  ungrateful,  because  she  re- 
fused to  relieve  John  Troy  of  a  responsibility  which  in  good 
nature  alone,  he  had  taken  upon  his  shoulders.  But  slowly 
and  by  sure  degrees  her  surprise  was  giving  way  to  the 
anger  that  lay  beneath.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  a  glistening 
fire,  and  her  lips  twitched  dangerously  as  the  words  began 
to  form  themselves.  She  did  not  consider  the  light  in 
which  she  would  place  herself.  The  keen  desire  to  shame 
this  girl,  who,  in  every  respect,  was  so  superior  to  herself, 
was  overmastering  everything.  It  was  not  a  desire  born  of 
the  moment.  She  had  long  possessed  it.  John  Troy  had 
stopped  her  in  the  satisfaction  of  it  before;  nothing  on 
earth  would  stop  her  now.  The  moment  that  she  had 
longed  for,  the  moment  when  Nanno  had  rebelled,  had 
come  at  last.  She  was  about  to  have  her  revenge  upon 
everything :  on  ISTanno  herself  for  her  aloofness,  on  her  lover 
for  his  perfidy,  and  on  her  husband  for  his  befriending  of 
her  illegitimate  child.  And  she  rose  to  it  as  an  angry  ani- 
mal rises  to  a  tormenting  prey. 

"Ye'll  have  to  marry  him,"  she  said,  with  dangerous 
calm. 

!N~anno  noticed  the  change  in  her  manner. 

"  'Tis  for  meself  to  say  that,"  she  replied  quietly. 

Bridget  gnashed  her  teeth. 


TRAFFIC.  101 

"  Be  careful !  "  she  exclaimed — "  be  careful !  Ye're 
drivin'  me  desperate,  that's  what  ye  are.  D'ye  know  that 
ye  could  be  turned  out  o'  this  house  as  ye  shtand  widout  a 
stitch  o'  clothin'  to  yeer  back  and  divvle  a  one  could  be 
called  up  to  own  ye  ?  " 

Xanno  looked  at  her  with  a  white  face. 

"  Begorra,  ye  can  look ;  but  that's  the  truth  for  ye,  an' 

the  truth's  always  bittherr.  D'ye  know  what  ye  are ?  " 

She  bent  down  again  closely  to  the  girl.  Xanno  shrank 
from  her  because  of  the  evil  look  in  her  eye. 

"  D'ye  know  what  ye  are  ?  "  she  repeated,  in  her  frighten- 
ing whisper.  "  Ye're  a  bastard — that's  what  ye  are.  D'ye 
think  ye're  that  man's  choild  ?  "  Her  arm  pointed  tragic- 
ally to  the  bedroom.  "  Yirra,  there's  not  a  tint  o'  his 
blood  in  the  whole  o'  ye." 

Xanno  covered  her  face  \yith  her  hands. 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  shure  when  ye  were  born,  if  I'd  put 
ye  in  his  arms  he'd  a  dropped  ye  like  a  hat  spood — he  would 
so.  An'  ye'd  have  the  brazen  face  to  say  ye  wouldn't  marry 
any  man  he'd  have  a  moind  to  say  for  ye.  Begorra,  'tis 
the  way  ye  should  be  goin'  down  on  yeer  knees  to  him  and 
thankin'  all  the  blissid  saints  that  ye've  had  a  home  to  live 
in  as  long  as  this."  The  saliva,  in  her  rage,  gathered  white 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Xot  his  child  !t "  Xanno  repeated  dully.  "  Xot  his 
child ! " 

Bridget  laughed  harshly.  To  Xanno,  it  sounded  like 
the  laughter  one  would  hear  in  hell. 

"  Yeer  father  was  of  the  kind  of  Mr.  Jerningham. 
Faith,  he  wanted  all  he  could  get  out  o'  me,  an'  he  got  ut. 
Oh,  glory  be  to  God,  an'  he  was  full  o'  promises.  He 
was  so.  Divvle  blast  him !  I  niver  seen  him  since  the 
night  he  played  hell  wid  me;  an'  some  years  back  I  heard 


102  TRAFFIC. 

say  he  was  dead.  'Tis  a  quare  place  ye'll  find  him  now  if 
ye  want  to  look  for  him." 

For  one  moment  Nanno  took  her  hands  from  her  face 
and  gazed  at  her  mother  in  horror;  then,  rising  and  cross- 
ing the  room,  she  threw  herself  on  the  table  by  the  window 
in  a  flood  of  tears. 

"Ah,  ye  can  cry;  but  that  won't  make  ye  yeer  father's 
choild — by  God,  it  will  not.  We  always  bred  easy,  we 
Powers,  and,  by  dad,  there  was  no  stoppin'  ye  cornin'  into 
the  world.  Faith,  ye'll  marry  Jamesy  Ryan  now.  An' 
if  he  does  take  a  drop  now  and  agin,  shure,  that's  a  little 
beside  the  truth  about  ye  if  he  knew  it." 

After  this  Bridget  could  say  no  more.  Nanno  was 
beaten.  There  was  no  defiance,  no  courage  left  in  her,  and 
as  soon  as  her  mother  saw  that,  she  felt  her  anger  satisfied. 
With  a  last  look  at  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  table,  she 
went  back  into  the  bedroom. 

For  almost  an  hour  Nanno  never  moved.  She  lay  like 
a  log  that  the  flood  has  washed  on  to  the  bank.  Occasion- 
ally her  shoulders  shook  convulsively ;  but  beyond  that  she 
scarcely  showed  any  sign  of  life.  And  then  at  last,  when 
the  flow  of  her  tears  was  exhausted,  she  rose  with  heavy 
eyes  and  looked  unseeingly  about  her. 

"  0  God/'  she  whispered,  trying  to  begin  a  prayer.  "  0 
God,"  she  said  again — but  there  seemed  nothing  to  pray 
for. 

All  that  she  had  feared  in  life — all  that  had  lain  subcon- 
sciously in  the  back  of  her  mind,  seemed,  in  that  one  word 
of  her  mother's,  to  have  suddenly  been  realized.  Shame 
was  her  portion — her  birthright — her  inheritance. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

that  night  and  onwards,  the  fate  which  had  molded 
JSTanno's  lips  and  left  its  shadows  in  her  eyes  began  to  make 
its  way  into  her  soul.  For  some  weeks  afterwards,  she  felt 
ashamed  to  be  seen  by  any  one  and  would  not  consent  to 
go  into  the  village  under  any  pretext  whatsoever.  When- 
ever she  met  John  Troy,  her  eyes  would  fall  from  his  gaze. 
For  a  time  she  could  look  no  one  in  the  face.  It  was  as 
though  she  had  been  branded  with  some  cruel  mark  that 
stamped  her  as  unclean,  unfit  for  those  around  her.  If 
Johnny  slipped  his  hand  into  hers,  she  would  draw  it  gently 
away.  Whenever  Bridget  touched  her,  she  shivered.  And 
at  night,  while  the  sound  of  her  brothers'  sleeping  kept 
rhythm  with  the  monotony  of  her  thoughts,  she  would  lie 
awake,  consumed  with  an  unreasonable  disgust  for  herself 
that  was  piteously  degrading.  She  felt  unclean,  even  to 
herself.  Xo  amount  of  reasoning  seemed  powerful  enough 
to  change  the  attitude  of  her  mind.  She  knew  it  was 
through  no  fault  of  her  own ;  she  knew  that  by  no  sense  of 
right  could  any  blame  attach  itself  to  her ;  yet  the  stain  of 
it  seemed  so  personally  her  own,  to  be  so  much  more 
vitally  connected  with  herself  than  any  one  else,  that  she 
could  not  wash  it  out  of  her  mind. 

Whenever  John  Troy  gave  her  any  command  about  the 
farm,  she  obeyed  it  with  hurried  servility,  as  though  she 
were  a  slave.  Whenever  Bridget  requested  her  to  do  any- 
thing, she  did  it  immediately,  without  comment.  For 
those  few  weeks,  until  the  keenest  edge  of  her  disgrace  had 

103 


104  TRAFFIC. 

been  indifferently  blunted  by  the  stone  of  time,  she  felt 
that  her  duty,  her  obedience,  her  existence,  belonged  to  any 
but  herself. 

And  on  the  matter  of  Jamesy  Eyan,  she  decided  that 
very  night.  Three  days  later,  when  she  found  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  John  alone,  she  told  him  briefly  of 
her  decision.  He  listened  with  astonishment  to  the  altera- 
tion of  her  mind  and  the  meekness  of  her  voice. 

"  What  did  herself  say  to  ye,  that  night  ? "  he  asked, 
when  she  had  finished.  He  was  not  so  simple  as  to  be 
deceived  by  the  unexpected  upheaval  of  her  determination. 
A  twenty  years'  acquaintance  with  Bridget  had  not  dead- 
ened his  perception  of  the  methods  which  she  used,  and  he 
knew  that,  with  ISTanno  in  particular,  she  was  pitiless  and 
without  heart. 

On  the  night  in  question,  he  had  heard  nothing  of  what 
had  passed  between  Nanno  and  her  mother.  Discarding 
his  clothes,  that  depended  from  him  by  the  simplest  con- 
trivances in  the  world,  he  had  slipped  into  bed  in  a  few 
moments  and,  no  sooner  had  his  head  found  its  accustomed 
groove  on  the  pillow,  than  he  fell  into  a  depth  of  sleep 
known  only  to  those  who  live  in  God's  air;  and  all  the 
highest  tones  of  Bridget's  raucous  voice  could  not  have 
awakened  him. 

But,  though  he  had  heard  nothing  to  arouse  his  suspi- 
cions, the  humility  of  Nanno's  words  quickened  his  in- 
stincts at  once. 

"  What  did  herself  say  to  ye,  that  night  ?  "  he  repeated. 

Nanno  looked  away. 

"  She  told  me  like  that  it  was  yeerself  I  should  be  con- 
sidering an'  shure,  I  suppose  she's  right.  She  is,  of 
course." 

John  tried  to  catch  her  eye ;  but  she  evaded  him. 

"  An'  is  that  all?" 


TMAFFIC.  105 

"  It  is." 

Whether  this  were  true  or  not,  and  John  very  much 
doubted  her  word,  he  knew  by  the  sound  of  her  voice 
that  he  could  elicit  nothing  further,  so  he  did  not  persist. 
But  he  questioned  her  closely,  trying  to  disturb  the  fixity 
of  her  determination.  This  also  was  useless  and,  begin- 
ning at  last  to  be  deceived  by  the  apparent  earnestness  of 
her  manner,  that  she  really  wished  to  show  her  willingness 
to  marry  Jamesy  Evan,  he  let  the  matter  drop. 

After  this,  the  solicitor  in  Anesk  was  called  into  the 
affair.  They  all  drove  into  the  town,  Xanno  included, 
and  in  his  dingy  little  office,  with  uncarpeted  floor  and 
piles  of  discolored  papers,  with  which  the  must  and  the 
dust  lived  in  one  accord,  the  last  throes  of  the  mutual 
agreement  were  entered  into. 

He  was  a  small,  fat  little  man,  with  kindly  and  knowing 
eyes  that  looked  at  everything  without  seeing  and  saw 
everything  without  looking.  He  sat  behind  an  old  ma- 
hogany desk  that  was  always  one  mangled  confusion  of  un- 
answered letters,  and  he  never  said  an  unkind  word  to  any 
one  in  his  life.  In  speaking,  he  had  a  slight  impediment, 
a  stammer  that  had  a  partiality  for  certain  letters  of  the 
alphabet.  But  this  did  not  interfere  with  his  business; 
many  times,  in  fact,  the  humor  of  it  had  won  him  a  case 
before  the  resident  magistrate.  By  nature,  he  was  a  senti- 
mentalist to  the  core;  but  in  business,  he  relied  upon  the 
length  of  his  upper  lip,  the  drollery  of  his  impediment,  and 
the  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

There  are  always  three  ways  of  winning  a  case,  and 
they  are  made  use  of  in  every  court,  from  the  Eathmore 
Petty  Sessions  to  the  oak-paneled  chambers  in  Fleet 
Street.  Either  you  make  the  Bench  laugh,  or  you  make 
it  weep,  or  you  appeal  to  its  sense  of  logic;  and  all  these, 
if  they  are  to  be  successful,  may  be  done  regardless^  if  neces- 


106  TRAFFIC. 

sary,  of  the  truth.  Little  Mr.  Donegan  always  adopted 
the  first.  His  type  of  countenance  suited  it.  To  utilize 
the  second,  one  must  have  a  watery  eye  and  a  mournful 
voice;  while  a  lengthy  face,  clean-shaven,  a  voice  that  im- 
presses every  one,  even  its  owner,  and  an  unerring  knowl- 
edge of  when  to  bring  the  clenched  fist  down  upon  the 
table,  are  all  that  are  required  for  the  third. 

Mr.  Donegan  was  certainly  a  humorist;  he  seldom 
smiled.  And  it  was  mostly  the  comedy  of  life  that  came 
as  grist  to  his  mill. 

As  he  sat  and  listened  to  the  last  efforts  of  Jamesy  Ryan 
to  increase  the  amount  of  the  dowry  and  Bridget's  valiant 
though  illogical  replies,  his  eyes  twinkled  merrily. 

"  Yirra,  damn  it  all,  me  good  'ooman,  make  it  two  hun- 
dred and  thirty-foive  for  luck  an'  the  look  of  ut." 

"  The  look  of  ut !  "  Bridget  exclaimed.  Her  eyes  pite- 
ously  sought  the  ceiling,  appealing  silently  but  impressively 
to  the  God  of  all  justice,  then  descended,  full  of  scorn  and 
contempt,  on  the  face  of  her  prospective  son-in-law. 
"  Glory  be  to  God,  shure,  if  ye  don't  like  the  looks  o'  two 
hundred  and  thurrtj'-wan  pounds  in  meltin'  gold,  ye  can 
leave  it  for  others  that'll  take  it  quick  enough.  Yirra, 
man,  ye're  as  mane  as  bogwater,  an'  I  havin*  to  get  the  por- 
ther  and  whishkey  for  ye  to  be  makin'  yeerself  drunk  wid 
at  the  weddin' !  " 

This  was  the  kind  of  thing  that  Mr.  Donegan  repeated 
with  admirable  mimicry  to  his  friends.  He  was  enjoying 
every  word  of  it,  when  his  eyes  lighted  on  Nanno.  She 
was  seated  on  a  chair  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  seeming  to  separate  her  from  all  that 
was  going  on,  as  the  face  of  one  in  the  beauty  of  prayer 
is  distinct  from  the  crowd. 

"  Is  that  your  daughter  that's  going  to  be  married  ?  "  he 
asked  Bridget  quietly. 


TRAFFIC.  107 

"Begorra,  it  is,  if  this  young  man'll  have  the  dacint 
honesty  not  to  go  back  on  the  word  he  gave  me  the  day  we 
reaped  the  field  o'  barley." 

Mr.  Donegan  looked  at  Xanno  again,  and  the  senti- 
mentalist came  almost  to  the  surface.  From  that  moment, 
until  even-thing  was  arranged,  he  could  not  take  his  eyes 
away  from  her.  There  was  many  a  word  he  wrote  in  the 
deed  of  settlement,  which  he  was  compelled  to  cross  out 
and  write  again. 

She  said  not  a  word  through  the  whole  proceeding.  It 
would  have  seemed  as  though  she  were  the  very  last  person 
concerned.  At  one  moment,  before  the  deed  was  signed, 
when  Jamesy  Ryan,  in  sudden  indecision,  had  declared 
again  that  he  must  have  his  two  hundred  and  thirty-five 
pounds,  Mr.  Donegan  thought  he  saw  the  expression  of 
absolute  fatality  replaced  for  one  brief  moment  by  a 
look  of  almost  hope;  but  it  died  away  again,  when  Jamesy 
was  brought  once  more  to  Bridget's  way  of  thinking. 

And  then,  when  the  whole  matter,  to  which  John  had 
all  the  time  been  a  silent  spectator,  was  settled,  they  went 
out  into  the  street,  repairing  at  once  to  the  nearest  public- 
house  and  leaving  Nanno  to  look  about  as  she  chose. 

An  unconscious  impulse  led  her  to  the  shop  window 
where  she  had  descended  from  the  car  on  which  Jerningham 
had  brought  her  from  Eathmore.  For  some  length  of  time, 
she  stood  there,  looking  at  the  articles  that  were  for  sale,  yet 
not  realizing  the  existence  of  any  one  of  them. 

All  that  she  had  feared  that  night,  and  worse  than  that, 
had  come  to  pass  since  then.  Up  to  that  moment,  it  seemed 
as  though  she  had  lived ;  there  had  been  pleasures  and  de- 
lights in  existence  that  she  had  looked  forward  to.  Now, 
she  looked  forward  to  nothing;  in  fact,  everything  that  lay 
before  her  filled  her  with  a  loathsome  foreboding  and 
dread, 


168  TRAFFIC. 

From  that  day  on  which  the  settlements  were  signed, 
until  the  next  Shrove-tide,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
wait.  To  Nanno,  the  time  wore  various  aspects.  Some- 
times it  seemed  as  though  the  years  would  pass  quicker 
than  those  few  months.  At  others,  more  especially  when, 
in  view  of  their  approaching  relationship,  Jamesy  would 
come  up  to  the  farm  and,  in  the  moments  of  showing  his 
admiration,  endeavor  to  taste  the  fruits  that  he  was  soon  to 
wrench  from  her  with  his  rough  hands,  she  would  imagine 
it  to  be  but  a  breath  before  the  awful  day  would  arrive. 

Meeting  her  one  day  in  the  street,  Father  Mehan  stopped 
and  smiled. 

"  Faith,  'tis  aisy  to  see  what  suits  ye  better  than  the 
convent,"  he  said,  with  native  flattery. 

Nanno  did  not  reply  and,  mistaking  her  silence  for 
maiden  modesty,  he  had  added : 

"Well,  I  suppose  I'll  see  ye  next  Shrove-tide,  ISfanno," 
and,  believing  that  she  was  perfectly  contented  with  cir- 
cumatances,  he  had  gone  on  his  way. 

How  she  had  the  courage  to  bear  and  face  it  all  is  be- 
yond the  understanding  of  a  man  to  say.  Women  are  not 
only  stoics  to  the  agonies  of  the  body;  it  is  not  only  the 
labor  of  child-birth  that  they  are  able  to  bear  with  tightened 
lips  and  silent  tongues;  they  are  stoics  also  to  the  agonies 
of  the  mind.  Yet  all  that  ISTanno  suffered  for  those  few 
months;  all  that  she  hoped  for  and,  as  time  went  on,  de- 
spaired of,  until  life  became  in  actual  fact  the  terrible 
reality  she  had  sometimes  dreamed  it  to  be,  is  but  the  out- 
set of  the  tragedy  that  is  hereafter  to  be  played. 

She  was  young — intensely  young — and  there  lay  the 
greater  pity  of  it.  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  life  is  to 
be  suffered,  quite  as  much  as,  if  not  more  so,  than  it  is 
to  be  lived.  It  may  not,  it  is  true,  be  such  a  serious  mat- 
ter after  all,  and  the  temperaments  that  find  it  so  are 


TRAFFIC.  109 

greatly  blessed.  But  when  one's  birth  is  the  satire  of  fatal- 
ity as  was  JSTanno's;  when  one  feels  the  hideous  necessity 
of  living  it  through  because  of  two  immense  uncertainties 
it  is  the  lesser;  then  life  can  be  all  that  Nanno  feared  of  it, 
and  may  contain  all  that  she  found  it  to  hold.  What  rec- 
ompenses there  may  be  hereafter  no  philosophy  of  clerics 
or  wisdom  of  wise  men  can  say.  Heaven  is  a  gentle  word 
with  which  to  lull  children  to  sleep,  and  hell  a  fearsome  one 
to  terrify  them  to  obedience.  But  two  things  only  are  con- 
stant ;  two  things  only  resist  the  logic  and  the  reasoning  of 
us  all — we  live  and  we  die — beyond  that  there  is  a  veil 
which  hides  the  wonders  and  the  mysteries  from  the 
farthest-seeing  eye  or  the  deepest  philosophy.  And  into 
this  state,  this  condition  of  things,  we  are  brought  without 
will,  question,  or  consent !  Because  one  night  a  man  and 
a  woman  who  had  been  nothing  to  each  other  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Church  had,  in  one  moment,  for  the  pressing  pleas- 
ure of  it,  gratified  a  sensual  desire,  N"anno  had  been  called 
into  existence,  a  prey  for  the  sport  of  Fate,  a  frail  vessel 
to  battle  with  the  buffetings  of  the  storm  as  best  she  could. 
Two  courses  alone  were  left  open  for  her  to  adopt;  either 
she  could  choose  the  uncertainty  of  life,  and  cling  to  its 
existence,  or,  leaving  it,  she  might  face  the  uncertainty  of 
death  and  the  ban  of  the  Church.  Had  she  not  accepted 
the  former,  preferring  the  uncertainty  of  death  to  that  of 
life,  this  story  had  never  been  written,  and  the  Gods  would 
have  been  cheated  of  their  game. 


BOOK  II, 

HOLY  MATRIMONY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON  Shrove  Tuesday,  in  the  following  year,  Nanno  was 
married  to  Jamesy  Ryan. 

The  little  church  of  Rathinore  with  its  simple  interior, 
its  square,  brick-tiled  floor,  and  its  varnished  rafters,  was 
filled  with  the  villagers  and  those  friends  and  relations 
who  had  come  from  various  parts  to  witness  the  ceremony 
and  partake  of  the  hospitality  that  would  follow  after. 

Compared  with  a  burial,  a  wedding  in  Ireland  is  as  a 
rushlight  to  a  bonfine.  As  an  occasion  for  the  distribution 
of  much  alcohol,  it  is  welcomed  enthusiastically,  but  the 
ceremony  itself  is  in  no  way  so  impressive.  Death  and 
emigration  are  the  two  great  incidents  of  life  in  Ireland. 
Marriage  is  a  small  matter  compared  with  these. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  country  in  the  world  where  a  sym- 
pathy with  human  nature  is  more  wanting,  more  extinct. 
Their  loves  and  their  hates,  fierce  though  they  sometimes 
may  be,  are  based  upon  motives  that  are  as  different  from 
those  of  other  nations  as  the  Frenchman  differs  from  the 
Sphinx.  To  an  Irishman,  his  land  is  his  mother,  his  wife 
and  his  child,  all  three  in  one;  his  women-folk  are  little 
more  than  beasts  of  burden — cattle  upon  the  land  that  he 
loves.  Insult  his  land,  and  he  will  wait  forever  for  the 
day  to  wreak  his  vengeance — insult  his  women-folk,  and  a 
few  stiff  glasses  of  whisky  will  make  amends  for  a  great 
deal. 

Ireland  is  notorious  for  its  pretty  women.  That  may 
be  so;  but  it  will  be  found  that  they  are  nearly  all  of 
8  113 


114  TRAFFIC. 

them  unmarried.  Once  a  woman  marries  in  Ireland,  she 
deteriorates;  she  becomes  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer 
of  water,  and  withers  into  premature  old  age.  The  num- 
ber of  children  born  to  an  average  Irishwoman  is  proof  of 
it  all.  No  man  who  had  sympathy  with  human  nature  01 
a  love  of  his  wife,  would  tax  her  strength  and  multiply 
her  labors  as  the  Irish  workman  will  do.  She  is  only  the 
beast  to  bear  his  burden,  the  cattle  on  the  land  that  he 
loves.  Every  record  of  English  injustice  in  that  country — 
and  there  are  thousands  that  are  only  too  true — are  all 
those  inflicted  on  the  land.  This  man  stole  a  farmer's 
homestead,  that  man  killed  another  for  his  domain — but 
scarce  a  tale  of  the  seduction  of  this  man's  wife  or  the  rape 
of  that  man's  child;  and,  when  the  soldiers  were  spread 
throughout  the  country,  that  must  have  been  a  common 
story  too.  Yet  never  is  it  repeated  now.  It  has  slipped 
the  memory  of  them  all,  while  the  stories  of  the  land — 
the  land — the  land — these  will  remain  forever. 

Of  all  those  who  were  present  at  the  marriage  of  Nanno 
Troy  to  Jamesy  Ryan  in  the  little  church  of  Rathmore, 
there  was  probably  not  one  to  whom  the  matter  appealed  in 
its  serious  aspect ;  not  one,  excepting  Nanno  herself.  There 
was  merriment;  there  were  jests.  Ripples  of  suppressed 
laughter  ran  along  the  occupants  of  the  long  forms. 
Jamesy  Ryan,  while  they  were  waiting  for  Father  Mehan's 
arrival,  turned  frequently  and  winked  lasciviously  at  those 
of  his  friends  who  were  present.  Bridget,  herself,  was  in 
the  best  of  spirits.  In  muffled  whispers,  interrupted  at 
times  by  coarse  though  subdued  hilarity,  she  gossiped  with 
those  who  were  sitting  near,  and  John  Troy,  still  believing 
that  it  was  Nanno's  willing  desire,  discussed  the  coming 
summer  with  his  neighbors. 

To  Nanno  alone,  it  was  real,  horrible,  grotesque.  For 
the  most  part  it  seemed  to  be  a  dream,  a  dream,  neverthe- 


TRAFFIC.  115 

less,  that  she  knew  to  be  true.  She  moved  as  though  she 
were  asleep.  There  was  no  trace  of  emotion  in  her  face; 
her  eyes  looked  away  into  a  distance  that  no  one  but  her- 
self could  see.  When  those  girls  of  the  village  with  whom, 
from  time  to  time,  she  had  been  more  or  less  friendly, 
spoke  to  her  about  the  good  fortune  that  was  hers,  she 
answered  without  feeling  or  expression.  All  that  they 
said,  she  quietly  agreed  with;  when  they  laughed,  she 
laughed  with  them,  but  it  was  only  the  echo  of  theirs,  the 
laughter  that  the  walls  of  a  vault  will  throw  back  to  him 
who  utters  it. 

And  then,  Father  Mehan  arrived.  The  laughter  and 
the  jesting  died  down  into  a  quiet  hush ;  the  service  began. 

Nanno  tried  to  feel  that  the  words  which  were  being 
said,  applied  to  herself  But  even  standing  there  with 
Jamesy  Evan  beside  her,  it  seemed  hard  to  realize.  With 
her  whole  nature  and  desire  so  foreign  to  it  all,  it  was 
difficult  to  believe  that  it  was  absolutely  true. 

Almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it,  it  was  over;  her  con- 
dition in  life  was  changed.  Xo  longer  free  to  speculate 
upon  her  own  future,  no  longer  able  to  count  herself  her 
own,  she  belonged  to  some  one  else.  Her  future  was  there 
already ;  it  both  faced  her  and  was  at  her  side. 

In  the  vestry,  she  had  to  submit  to  the  inevitable  kiss 
of  bondage,  while  the  others  stood  by  and  laughed. 

"  Begorra,  that's  the  first  of  a  lot  of  'em,"  she  heard  a 
girl  whisper. 

She  even  framed  her  lips  into  the  form  of  a  kiss,  when 
he  put  his  mouth  to  hers.  But  no  kiss  was  given.  The 
sound  of  his  own  obliterated  that  fact,  even  to  himself. 
And  then,  when  the  registry  was  signed ;  her  name  in  neat, 
legible  writing  that  she  had  learned  at  the  National  School, 
his,  with  a  cross  against  the  name  that  Father  Mehan  had 
Britten  for  him,  they  hurried  out  of  the  church  and 


116  TRAFFIC. 

mounted  the  cars  and  the  traps  that  had  been  waiting  for 
them. 

The  crowd  cheered  and  shouted  as,  with  a  lashing  of 
whips,  a  clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  jolting  of  springs,  they 
drove  helter-skelter  away.  In  that  part  of  the  world  one 
drives  slowly  and  the  longest  way  round  to  a  funeral.  It 
is  the  importance  that  falls  on  death.  At  a  wedding,  one 
drives  hell  for  leather;  and,  if  it  were  possible,  the  short- 
est route  as  the  crow  flies  would  be  the  one  preferred. 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  all  back  at  the  farm.  The 
wedding  had  taken  place  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
so  that  the  evening  was  already  gray  by  the  time  that  they 
returned.  And  then  began  the  feasting  of  the  night. 

One  of  the  outhouses  had  been  cleared  of  all  its  contents 
and  there,  to  the  tunes  of  a  blind  fiddler,  there  AVOS  dancing 
in  all  its  national  forms.  The  kitchen  was  filled,  as  it  had 
been  on  the  day  of  the  Pattern,  with  men  and  women  drink- 
ing the  whole  night  long.  The  incessant  sounds  of  their 
talking  and  the  muddled  laughter  of  their  voices  would 
sometimes  be  broken  by  the  metallic  breaking  of  glass,  as 
a  tumbler  was  dropped  from  an  unsteady  hand.  But  to 
Nanno,  the  quiet,  peaceful  farmhouse  seemed  like  hell;  a 
pandemonium  that  would  never  regain  its  peacefulness  un- 
til the  end  of  time.  She  was  dragged  from  one  place  to 
another  by  her  friends,  to  share  in  whatever  amusement  was 
going  on.  She  was  made  to  dance  with  the  rest  of  them, 
and  still  it  was  all  a  dream ;  a  dream  from  which  she  would 
not  wake  until  everything  was  quiet,  and  all  the  voices  had 
ceased.  And  every  now  and  again,  the  face  of  Jamesy 
Ryan  came  to  her  as  a  reality.  His  voice  would  rise  above 
the  others,  and  she  would  look  quickly  at  him  as  though  she 
had  been  reminded ;  he  would  put  his  arm  round  her  waist 
in  the  dance,  and  a  light  of  conscious  horror  would  creep 
into  her  eyes. 


TRAFFIC.  117 

So  the  night  wore  on,  drawing  nearer  every  moment  to 
the  hour  when  she  would  be  left  alone  with  him.  In  a 
desire  of  fear,  endeavoring  to  put  off  the  evil  moment  as 
long  as  she  dared,  she  began,  in  the  first,  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  dancing.  When 
one  set  was  finished,  she  urged  another,  to  begin.  If  a 
girl  had  to  leave,  she  would  fill  in  her  place  herself,  and 
dance,  as  though  new  energy  had  suddenly  entered  into  her 
and  she  wished  to  infuse  it  into  the  minds  of  others. 

But  it  was  all  unnatural,  forced,  an  effort  of  despair. 
The  light  of  enthusiasm  went  out  of  her  eyes,  as  a  candle 
is  snuffed  by  the  extinguisher,  when  she  saw  Jamesy  Evan 
lurching  across  the  floor  of  the  outhouse,  a  purpose  fixed 
in  his  face.  With  an  unsteady  gaze,  he  was  looking  at 
her,  and  she  knew  that  the  moment  had  come. 

One  more  effort  she  made,  calling  to  the  fiddler  to  play 
quicker,  and  whirling  round  with  her  partner  in  the  square ; 
the  next  moment  Ryan's  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Glory  be  to  God,"  he  said  thickl}',  "  ye're  dancing  the 
deuce  out  o'  yeerself,"  and,  taking  her  by  the  arm,  he 
dragged  her  away. 

The  girls  looked  at  her,  and  grinned;  the  men  burst 
forth  into  laughter  as  she  followed  him  out  of  the  outhouse. 
That  laughter  rang  in  her  ears  until  the  light  of  the  morn- 
ing found  its  way  into  the  sky. 

"  God  blast  ?em,"  he  said,  when  they  were  alone  outside 
in  the  yard — "  Shure,  't'll  be  marnin'  before  they'll  be 
thinkin'  o'  goinV 

He  stumbled  heavily,  and  she  caught  at  his  arm  in- 
voluntarily to  save  him.  The  jolting  of  it  brought  on  a 
feeling  of  sickness,  and,  for  a  moment,  he  stood  there, 
swaying  uncertainly.  Then  it  overcame  him.  He  vom- 
ited. Xanno  shuddered,  and  shut  her  eyes.  But  she 


118  TRAFFIC. 

stood  by  him  until  it  had  passed;  praying  that  no  one 
would  come  out  and  see  him. 

Soon  after  she  had  left  the  dance,  the  party  broke  up, 
and  one  by  one  they  went  home.  As  the  last  of  them 
drove  away,  JSTanno  turned  back  into  the  kitchen.  Her 
energies  were  dead;  she  felt  exhausted.  And  then  she 
seated  herself  on  the  three-legged  stool  until  Jamesy  came 
back  from  the  yard  outside  to  claim  her — the  claiming  of 
the  animal  that  the  butcher  has  bought  for  the  shambles. 

The  moment  as  she  passed  through  the  door  of  the  room 
that  had  been  prepared  for  them,  seemed  as  though  it  were 
the  last  that  she  could  endure;  yet,  above  it  all,  governing 
and  controlling  every  action,  rose  the  remembrance  that  she 
was  a  shame-child — one  who  could  have  no  right  for  sym- 
pathy or  reason  for  regret.  This  was  her  duty;  this  was 
her  penalty;  the  sins  of  the  father  were  falling  heavily, 
but  with  divine  accuracy,  upon  the  child.  And,  as  the 
door  closed  behind  her,  leaving  her  alone  with  the  man 
whom  she  had  discarded  from  the  beginning,  she  fell  down 
across  the  bed;  but  her  eyes  were  dry,  and  her  heart — 
stone. 


CHAPTER  II. 

GLENLICKY  is  a  wild  part  of  the  country.  A  little  river, 
bearing  the  name  of  the  district,  flows  through  the  low- 
lying  valley  of  gray,  lichened  rock  and  warm,  purple 
heather.  The  water  of  it,  is  of  a  soft,  brown  color,  caused 
by  the  peat  land  through  which  it  has  passed.  During  a 
flood  it  rushes  along  over  the  shallow  bed,  resting  now  and 
again  in  the  deep  pools  where  the  trout  lie  lazily,  then 
seething  on  past  the  gray-green  rocks  through  the  lonely 
valley.  Here  and  there,  across  the  big  stretch  of  country, 
a  farmhouse  rises  behind  a  clump  of  trees;  but  they  are 
few  and  far  between.  The  nearest  place  of  habitation  to 
Jamesy  Ryan's  farm,  was  Kiley's  Cross,  which  was  com- 
posed of  a  police  barracks,  a  public  house,  and  two  or 
three  cottages.  They  all  stand  on  the  square  where  four 
cross-roads  meet.  From  this  circumstance  and  the  owner 
of  the  public  house,  the  place  gets  its  name.  To  the  igno- 
rant traveler,  Kiley's  Cross  is  merely  a  half-way  house, 
dropped  into  the  midst  of  a  lonely  part  of  country.  And 
two  miles  distant  from  it  stands  Jamesy  Ryan's  farm. 

Surrounded  by  a  few  stunted  poplars,  with  its  warm, 
thatched  roof  and  standing  high  up  on  the  side  of  the 
valley,  it  appears  at  the  first  glance  to  be  homely,  com- 
fortable, secure.  But  in  winter,  when  the  nights  are  long ; 
when  the  wind  rattles  through  the  leafless  branches  of  the 
trees  and  the  mud  floor  of  the  kitchen  is  damp  with  the 
rain  that  has  filtered  through  the  thatch;  there  are  few 
places  in  those  parts  that  are  more  desolate.  To  Nanno, 

119 


120  TRAFFIC. 

after  the  comparative  comfort  of  John  Troy's  farm,  it  be- 
came at  times  intolerable.  At  night  she  would  pray  for  the 
daylight,  and  when  it  came,  gray,  misty,  blowing  over  the 
land  in  great  sheets  of  floating  rain,  she  would  long  for 
the  night  to  come  to  shut  it  out  and  hide  it  from  her. 

Eathmore  was  a  small  village,  no  doubt ;  but  it  brought 
with  it  a  sense  of  peaceful  security.  There  was  always 
something  consoling  in  the  small,  bright  lights  that  burned 
in  the  cottage  windows.  Even  at  eight  and  nine  o'clock 
at  night  people  were  moving  about.  Men  talked  in  groups 
at  the  corners  of  the  street.  But  here,  if  she  looked  out  of 
the  one  small,  dirty  window  in  the  kitchen,  there  was  not 
a  light  to  be  seen.  Only  the  gaunt,  gray  forms  of  the 
stunted  poplars  stood  out,  webbed,  against  the  leaden  color 
of  the  sky  and  across  the  country  the  land  was  bleak  and 
cold. 

The  cottage  itself  was  poor  and  miserable.  The  rafters 
were  rotting  and  the  thatch  was  always  damp.  The  fifteen 
acres  that  Jamesy  possessed  were  badly  farmed ;  for  though 
John  Troy  had  said  he  was  hard-working,  yet  Nanno's 
estimation  of  him  had  been  the  more  correct.  A  man  who 
is  sober  only  on  occasions  cannot  put  hard  work  into  any- 
thing. 

Almost  every  day,  from  the  time  they  were  married  until 
spring  had  begun  to  set  in  and  there  really  was  work  to  be 
done,  ISTanno  would  be  left  to  herself.  Jamesy  would  go 
up  to  Kile/s  Cross,  spending  the  whole  day  there,  and  re- 
turning home  sometimes  late  at  night,  his  clothes  often 
caked  with  mud  where  he  had  fallen.  The  ground  through 
that  valley  and  up  the  sides  of  the  hills  was  none  too  even 
for  a  man  to  walk  in  the  possession  of  all  his  wits.  On 
these  occasions,  expecting  sometimes  that  she  would  turn 
and  abuse  him  for  his  neglect,  he  frequently  lost  his  tem- 
per sot  the  quietness  of  her  submission. 


TRAFFIC.  181 

"  Yirra,  damn  and  blast  ye,"  he  said  once,  as  he  took  a 
seat  threateningly  beside  her.  "  Why  the  hell  can't  ye  have 
a  little  more  spirrut  in  ye  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer  and  then,  in  uncontrollable  irrita- 
tion, he  struck  her  with  his  open  hand,  throwing  her  from 
the  stool  on  which  she  was  sitting  to  the  ground.  She  fell 
heavily,  but  was  not  hurt  in  any  way,  and  as  she  rose  to 
her  feet,  her  deep,  gray  eyes  looked  steadily  at  him. 

"  I'm  yeer  wife,"  she  said,  regaining  her  breath ;  "  I 
belong  to  ye — but  if  ye  treat  me  in  that  way,  'tis  a  short 
time  ye'll  find  me  submittin'  to  it." 

He  tried  to  laugh  nonchalantly.  The  effort  made  him 
look  supreme!}"  ridiculous. 

"  Bi  gob,  I'll  do  as  I  damn  well  loike,"  he  retorted ;  but 
for  the  next  few  days,  though  he  showed  her  no  affection 
and  returned  at  nights  just  as  drunk  as  ever,  he  kept  his 
hands  under  control  and  did  not  ill-use  her  again. 

The  sensual  attraction  that  had  driven  him  previous  to 
their  marriage  had  not  taken  long  to  be  satiated;  and 
when  the  freshness  of  her  in  his  mind  had  worn  itself  to 
a  thread;  when  her  cheeks  had  lost  the  warmth  of  their 
color  and  her  eyes  were  heavy  with  sleepless  nights,  he  re- 
sorted to  Kiley's  Cross,  spending  day  by  day  there  the 
sum  of  money  that  had  come  to  him  with  her  dowry. 

It  was  just  the  hell  on  earth  that  Xanno  had  expected 
it  to  be,  and  only  by  keeping  her  mind  aloof  from  it  all 
could  she  retain  that  self -respect  which,  no  matter  how  she 
had  been  shamed,  was  still  inseparable  from  her  nature. 
She  never  went  up  to  Kiley's  Cross  herself,  though,  for 
the  first  week  or  so  of  their  married  life,  he  had  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  do  so.  But  she  was  not  of  the  type  who 
endeavor  to  drown  their  sorrow.  There  was  something  so 
ignoble  in  it  to  her  mind  that,  though  night  after  night 
she  would  see  Jamesy  throw  himself  on  to  his  bed  and 


122  TRAFFIC. 

drift  off  immediately  into  a  sodden  condition  of  sleep  that 
became  oblivious  of  everything — which,  as  she  watched 
him,  seemed  a  state  of  mind  that  she  almost  envied — yet 
the  thought  of  the  means  by  which  he  had  arrived  at  it 
disgusted  her  to  nausea. 

And  thus,  day  by  day,  night  by  night,  the  period  of 
her  married  life  lengthened.  The  circumstances  of  it  be- 
came worse  and  worse  as  time  went  on,  but  she  also  be- 
came more  inured  to  bear  it.  She  realized  how  much  more 
hardened  to  her  conditions  she  was  when,  one  day,  a  neigh- 
bor came  in  from  a  distant  farm  and,  gossipping  with  her 
over  a  cup  of  tea,  had  told  her  tales  about  Jamesy's  doings 
at  Kiley's  Cross  that  she  had  not  thought  about  before. 

The  good  woman  felt  sympathetic  to  Nanno's  hardships, 
which  were  a  byword  in  the  district,  and  she  thought  a 
little  consolation  might  help  her. 

"  Maybe  there's  not  a  tint  o'  truth  in  it,"  she  said  care- 
fully, mistaking  Nanno's  silent  acceptance  of  the  story  for 
a  cloak  behind  which  deeper  feelings  lay.  "'Tis  that 
widdey  woman,  Mrs.  Doran.  Wisha,  'twas  a  bad  day  that 
brought  her  to  these  parts.  She  niver  wrote  the  scroll  of  a 
pen  to  her  husband  for  the  last  six  months  before  he  was 
drowned  at  sea.  Shure,  'tis  the  way  there's  a  bad  drop  in 
her." 

It  was  from  this  incident,  perhaps,  more  than  any  other, 
that  Nanno  realized  how  utterly  indifferent  to  life  she  had 
become.  But  it  was  slowly  killing  her.  Her  life,  young  as 
it  was,  seemed  utterly,  irretrievably  wasted.  She  had  not 
realized  before  she  was  married  all  the  joys  that  life  could 
contain;  but  since,  when  she  had  experienced  some  of  its 
greatest  horrors,  it  was  as  though  she  had  come  to  know 
by  contrast.  She  had  failed  to  make  of  life  what  she  knew 
could  be  made  of  it,  when  circumstance  or  a  great  and 
masterful  nature  control  it  for  its  good.  But  a  masterful 


TRAFFIC.  123 

nature  was  not  hers.  She  could  not  stride  barefooted  over 
the  sharp  flints  of  adversity;  she  was  not  strong  enough  to 
hew  her  way  through  the  tangled  forest  of  depression 
where  the  daylight  only  steals  through  odd  chinks  in  the 
leaves.  Hers  was  not  the  personality  which  seizes  the  ax, 
fells  the  tree  and  makes  a  rent  of  daylight  in  the  gloom, 
where  the  sun  had  failed  to  force  its  way.  Nanno,  rather, 
was  the  child  of  the  story-book.  Circumstances  might 
harden  her,  conditions  might  embitter  her;  yet  always  at 
the  root  of  her  nature  would  be  that  childish  love  of  being 
intensely  happy  in  the  sunlight  of  life  and  looking  to  one 
stronger  than  herself  when  the  clouds  were  heavy  or  the 
night  was  dark. 

But  it  was  all  dark  in  those  first  few  months  of  her  mar- 
ried life,  and  the  only  strength  she  had  on  which  to  rely 
was  her  religion.  No  love  had  entered  her  life  up  till  then, 
and  so  she  leaned  upon  her  faith,  still  hoping  against  hope, 
still  praying  against  belief. 

Often,  at  night,  Jamesy  would  return  to  find  her  by  the 
kitchen  fire  upon  her  knees,  the  deep  orange  of  the  fire- 
light glowing  on  her  face,  her  lips  parted  silently.  At 
those  times,  she  would  rise  hastily  to  her  feet  and  busy 
herself  about  the  room  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

It  was  under  a  circumstance  like  this,  that  Jamesy  had 
one  night  returned,  accompanied  by  friends  with  whom  he 
had  attended  the  wake  of  an  old  farmer  who  had  died  in 
the  district.  To  have  been  at  a  wake  implies,  almost  of 
necessity,  the  state  of  intoxication.  They  were  all  of  them 
more  or  less  drunk. 

The  soft  mud  of  the  farmyard  outside  had  muffled  the 
sound  of  their  footsteps  and,  when  the  door  suddenly  flew 
open,  they  saw  Nanno  kneeling  by  the  chimney  corner. 
She  had  evidently  been  in  that  attitude  for  some  time,  for 
her  hand  rested  on  the  three-legged  stool  by  her  side,  sup- 


124  TRAFFIC. 

porting  her  body.  Immediately  she  rose  to  her  feet;  but 
not  before  two  of  them  had  noticed  her. 

One  burst  out  into  laughter,  and  the  other — it  was 
Jamesy  himself — spat  into  the  room. 

"  Glory  be  to  God !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  shure,  we've  had 
prayers  enough  for  to-night,  anyhow.  Quid  Brodie's  soul 
ought  to  be  restin'  like  a  babe  now,  wid  all  we've  said  for 
him." 

They  crowded  into  the  room,  the  one  woman  who  was 
with  them  scrutinizing  Nanno  directly  she  entered.  For 
a  moment,  Nanno  was  overcome  with  her  surprise  and 
then,  realizing,  from  the  description  she  had  received,  that 
this  was  the  notorious  Mrs.  Doran  whose  intimacy  with 
Jamesy  had  already  been  related  to  her,  she  withdrew  her 
gaze  in  disgust. 

"  Good  evening  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Doran  said  brazenly. 
Nanno  affected  not  to  hear,  and  the  widow  winked  at 
Jamesy. 

She  was  a  hard-featured  woman,  who  still  possessed  in 
her  face  the  attributes  of  good  looks.  But  there  was  some- 
thing particularly  vicious  in  the  regularity  of  her  features 
and  the  coarse  color  of  her  skin;  there  was,  moreover,  a 
sense  of  shamelessness  in  her  expression.  Her  skirt  of 
rough  homespun  was  cut  short  above  her  ankles.  There 
was  some  of  the  brutality  of  the  man  about  her,  and  she 
walked  with  heavy  steps  that  betokened  the  daring  inde- 
pendence of  her  nature. 

"'Tis  a  fine  evenin'  ma'am,"  she  went  on,  determining 
to  make  Nanno  notice  her. 

Nanno  looked  round. 

"  Maybe,"  she  replied — "  I've  not  been  out." 

"'Twas  a  fine  wake  ye're  after  missin',"  she  persisted. 

Nanno  nodded  her  head,  and  passed  from  the  kitchen 
into  the  bedroom,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 


TRAFFIC.  125 

They  all  turned  their  heads,  watching  her  departure; 
then,  one  by  one,  with  a  smile  lurking  in  the  corner  of 
their  eyes,  they  looked  back  at  Jainesy. 

"  Shure,  she's  moighty  supayrior,"  said  the  widow,  gaz- 
ing up  at  the  ceiling. 

The  three  men  laughed,  but  Jamesy  stared  viciously  at 
the  door  that  Xanno  had  closed  behind  her. 

"  Begorra,  she's  drivin'  me  to  hell  wid  her  supayriority," 
he  said  under  his  breath,  though  loud  enough  for  them  all 
to  hear  it. 

"  Me  darlin'  bhoy,"  sighed  Mrs.  Doran. 

That  was  a  type  of  humor  that  made  them  shout  with 
laughter  and,  seeing  that  it  amused  them,  she  gave  them 
more  of  it. 

"  Yirra,  come  and  sit  on  me  knee,  me  poor  fella,"  she 
murmured.  There  was  a  maudlin  caress  in  her  voice. 

The  other  men  pushed  him  on  to  her  and,  when  he 
put  his  arms  round  her  neck  to  save  himself,  they  shouted 
their  hilarity  again. 

"  Is  it  drivin'  ye  to  hell  she  is  ?  "  she  began  again,  when 
she  had  recovered  herself  from  the  shock  of  his  impact. 
She  patted  him  on  his  unshaven  face  with  her  coarse  hands 
as  she  said  it. 

Jamesy  looked  at  her  and  she  winked.  The  other  men 
urged  them  on  with  their  laughter. 

"  Begorra,  she'd  make  a  foine  mother,  she  would  so," 
said  one  of  them. 

"  Maybe  I'd  make  better  than  ye'd  think,  if  I  got  the 
chanst,"  she  replied  readily  and,  unseen  to  them,  she  ac- 
companied the  words  with  a  sudden  grip  of  Jamesy's 
waist  as  she  held  him  to  her. 

Ryan  moved  uneasily,  and  the  others  rolled  around  the 
room  in  their  merriment. 

And  so  this  scene  of  loathsome  debauchery  continued* 


126  TRAFFIC. 

A  bottle  of  whisky  was  produced,  and  the  drinking  of 
it  but  intensified  the  coarseness  of  their  jests. 

Lying  awake  in  the  other  room,  Nanno  listened  dully 
to  all  that  was  going  on.  She  heard  their  shouts  of 
laughter,  every  blast  of  it  fraying  her  nerves,  laying  bare 
the  threads;  until,  at  last,  covering  her  head  with  the 
bed-clothes,  she  strove  to  shut  it  out  of  her  ears. 

At  last,  by  whispered  persuasions,  addressed  to  Jamesy 
when  the  others  were  not  looking,  Mrs.  Doran  induced 
him  to  get  rid  of  the  other  men.  They  accepted  eventually 
the  blatant  hints  that  were  offered  them  and,  with  sly 
looks  at  each  other,  they  moved  unsteadily  towards  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Doran  yawned  and  rose  slowly  to  her  feet. 

"Faith,  I'd  better  be  goin'  meself,"  she  said.  Jamesy 
looked  at  her  apprehensively,  but  she  made  no  movement 
to  carry  out  what  she  said. 

"  Shure,  'tis  aiqual  to  the  deuce  what  time  we  get  home," 
said  the  last  man,  as  he  lurched  out  of  the  door  into  the 
darkness. 

"If  ye  ever  get  home  at  all,"  Mrs.  Doran  called  out 
after  him. 

She  seated  herself  again  in  the  chimney  corner  as 
Jamsey  closed  the  door  and,  while  in  the  pretense  of 
gazing  at  the  fire,  she  watched  him  as  he  came  back  slowly 
into  the  room.  She  saw  him  stand  midway  between 
her  and  the  door.  She  saw  him  listening.  Every- 
thing was  silent;  and  then,  as  he  crept  to  the  door  of  the 
bedroom,  bending  down  in  an  attitude  of  concentrated  at- 
tention, a  vicious  smile  turned  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
She  was  on  the  eve  of  triumph  over  the  woman  whom  she 
had  hated  by  instinct  and  now  loathed  on  acquaintance. 

"Begorra,  she'd  sleep  through  hell,"  she  said  in  an 


TRAFFIC.  127 

undertone.  Jamesy  nodded  his  head,  and  crossed  the 
room  stealthily  to  her  side. 

But  Nanno  was  not  asleep.  She  had  heard  the  de- 
parture of  the  three  men  and,  with  the  bed-clothes  re- 
moved from  her  face,  her  eyes  and  ears  were  strained 
in  the  darkness.  The  walls  of  the  cottage  were  thick, 
but,  nevertheless,  she  had  heard  their  laughing  and  talk- 
ing plainly  enough.  Now,  not  a  sound  could  be  heard 
in  the  other  room. 

For  some  time  she-,  listened  and  waited,  and  at  last, 
hearing  nothing,  thinking  that  Jamesy  must  have  gone  out 
with  them  as  well,  she  stole  out  of  bed.  In  another 
moment  she  had  opened  the  door  that  led  into  the  kitchen. 

A  scuffle  and  a  word  of  cursing  reached  her  ears  before 
she  saw  anything.  Apprehensively,  she  took  one  more 
step  forward;  then,  with  a  catching  of  her  breath,  she 
turned  her  back,  hurrying  again  into  the  bedroom  and 
closing  the  door  hastily  behind  her. 

For  a  few  moments,  everything  was  silent  again. 
With  heart  pounding  against  her  as  she  lay  in  the 
bed,  she  waited  for  something  else  to  happen.  It  came  at 
last.  Jamesy's  footsteps  sounded  heavily  as  he  crossed  the 
kitchen  floor;  the  door  flew  open,  letting  the  dim  light 
from  outside  pour  in  a  murky  stream  into  the  room.  Then 
he  stood  beside  the  bed.  Once  she  looked  at  him.  She 
could  look  no  more.  There  was  hate  and  murder  in  his 
eyes.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  she  was  facing  the  blade 
of  danger  and,  with  a  little  cry,  she  covered  the  clothes 
about  her. 

He  uttered  a  violent  curse,  and  tore  them  from  her 
shoulders.  She  lay  there  with  her  arms  across  her  eyes, 
her  head  buried  in  the  pillow.  But  it  availed  her  nothing. 
He  was  not  in  the  mood  to  stop  and  think ;  the  fury  of  a 
guilty  mind  had  gripped  him.  'With  iron  fingers,  he 


128  TRAFFIC. 

caught  her  wrists  and  dragged  her  arms  apart.  Then 
his  clenched  fist  fell  with  a  dull,  unyielding  thud  upon  her 
upturned  face.  The  mark  it  left  was  white;  as  death. 
She  moaned. 

"  By  God,  ye'll  niver  be  afther  spyin'  on  me  agen ! " 
he  muttered,  and  then  his  blows  fell  on  her  as  the  ham- 
mers that  drive  in  a  wedge.  When  she  tried  to  get  away 
from  him,  he  seized  the  loosened  strands  of  her  hair  and 
dragged  her  to  his  reach.  A  thin  stream  of  blood  flowed 
from  her  mouth;  blood  that,  in  that  dim,  uncertain  light, 
looked  black  and  ugly.  This  was  the  shambles  to  which, 
passing  before  the  altar  of  God  and  with  the  blessing  of 
the  priest  in  their  ears,  he  had  led  her.  But  she  still 
moaned,  and  so  long  as  she  did  that,  fear  did  not  stop 
him.  He  beat  her  about  the  body,  caring  little  that  her 
child  was  yet  unborn;  and  then,  when  her  moaning  ceased, 
when  he  realized  that  he  was  beating  a  still  and  lifeless 
thing  that  gave  no  answer  to  its  punishment,  his  arm 
swung  limply  to  his  side,  and  he  looked  at  her  disfigured 
face  in  stupid  horror. 

She  never  moaned;  she  never  moved. 

"  Chroist !  "  he  exclaimed. 

Then  he  ran  into  the  kitchen,  the  blood  on  his  hands, 
the  terror  in  his  eyes. 

The  kitchen  was  empty.     Mrs.  Doran  had  gone. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

FOR  almost  two  weeks  Nanno  never  moved  from  the 
bed  where  she  had  been  beaten.  Every  time  she  saw  the 
blood-stain  upon  the  clothes,  she  shuddered,  and  every 
time  that  Jamesy  entered  the  room,  she  closed  her  eyes. 

The  doctor  from  Eathmore  had  come  over  that  next  day 
to  see  her  and,  during  his  visit,  Jamesy  found  it  necessary 
to  be  at  work  in  one  of  the  fields  farthest  from  the  house. 

Dr.  Fitzgerald  was  a  young  man,  square  about  the 
shoulders,  keen  in  the  eyes.  He  had  not  long  concluded 
his  walking  of  the  hospitals  and  life  to  him,  as  yet.,  was 
not  a  thing  to  be  taken  for  granted.  His  manner  at  that 
time  would  have  been  detrimental  to  his  career,  had  he 
been  attending  a  better  class  of  patients ;  but  with  the  poor 
country  people,  the  brusqueness  of  his  voice  and  his  abrupt 
way  of  speaking,  could  not  have  been  more  suitable.  He 
gave  them  confidence;  it  was  a  reflection  of  the  confidence 
he  felt  in  himself. 

As  he  stood  by  Nanno's  bedside  there  was  a  keen, 
critical  expression  in  his  eyes:  the  keenness  of  the  lancet 
which  cuts  to  the  root  of  the  evil. 

"  How  did  this  happen  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  lips  twitched  with  pain.     She  was  piteously  weak. 

"  Come  now — how  did  it  happen  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  'Twas  the  way  I  fell  on  me  face,"  she  said  under  her 
breath,  and  her  eyes  watched  his  face  closely  for  any  ex- 
pression of  belief.  How  could  she  have  told  him  the 
truth?  It  might  be  a  common  occurrence  for  a  husband 
9  129 


130  TRAFFIC. 

to  beat  his  wife.  The  doctor,  no  doubet,  had  seen  plenty 
of  instances  of  it.  But  it  was  not  common  to  Nanno. 
Undeserved,  brutal,  and  cowardly  though  it  had  been, 
she  felt  it  to  be  a  shame  to  herself.  She  could  not  tell 
him  the  truth;  yet,  realizing  that  he  might  not  accept 
her  statement,  she  watched  his  face  critically  to  see  if 
he  believed. 

But  she  saw  nothing.  She  could  not  have  said  whether 
he  credited  her  information  or  not.  He  merely  bent  over 
the  bed  and  made  a  closer  examination  of  her  wounds,  say- 
ing, nothing. 

He  ordered  ointments  to  be  used,  lotions  to  be  applied. 
In  a  rough  sort  of  way,  he  took  her  hand  and  told  her  to 
cheer  up. 

"  Good  heavens — it  might  have  been  worse,"  he  said. 

He  had  seen  worse. 

Then  he  went  out  of  the  house  and  into  the  fields. 

"  Have  you  seen  Eyan  ?  "  he  asked  of  a  man  whom  he 
found  resting  from  work  under  a  hedge. 

"  'Tis  way  in  that  field  over." 

He  pointed  with  a  knotted  finger  in  the  direction. 

Fitzgerald  climbed  a  hedge  and  disappeared  out  of 
sight.  When  Jamesy  saw  him  approaching,  he  stood  up 
from  his  work  and  a  breath  of  cold  wind  blew  over  his 
forehead.  He  touched  his  hat. 

"  Your  wife's  in  a  bad  way,"  said  Fitzgerald. 

"Bigob,  she  is  that,  sorr,"  he  said,  shifting  his  hands 
on  the  spade  he  held. 

"  Yes — and  do  you  know  what's  the  cause  of  it  ?  " 

Jamesy's  face  assumed  an  expression  of  consideration. 

"  'Twas  the  way  she  fell." 

"Oh!— she  told  you  that?" 

"  She  did." 

Fitzgerald  .clenched  his  fists.     The  pleasure  of  doing 


TRAFFIC.  131 

the  same  to  Ryan  as  lie  had  clone  to  his  wife,  was  a  temp- 
tation that  he  could  barely  resist. 

"I'm  a  doctor/'  he  said  shortly. 

"  Begorra,  I  know  that,  sorr." 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  understand  why,  when  a  woman 
is  battered  about  the  face  as  your  wife  is,  I  know  damned 
well  what  has  been  the  cause  of  it.  Your  fist  was  the 
cause  of  it,  you  hulking  coward,  and  by  God,  if  you  re- 
peat it,  I  won't  keep  my  hands  off  you.  And  when  I've 
done  with  you,  we'll  see  if  the  law  has  anything  to  say. 
D'you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sorr." 

Fitzgerald  looked  into  his  eyes,  the  lancet  again  cut- 
ting into  the  unhealthy  flesh;  then  he  turned  on  his  heel, 
striding  away  too  quickly  to  hear  the  curse  that  Ryan  mut- 
tered after  him. 

On  two  other  occasions  before  Xanno  was  able  to  rise 
from  her  bed,  the  doctor  came  to  see  her ;  but  he  never  al- 
luded to  the  knowledge  that  he  possessed.  During  both 
visits,  Jamsey  managed  to  keep  out  of  the  way,  and  when 
Fitzgerald  had  gone,  he  would  come  and  curse  her  be- 
cause she  had  irritated  him  into  the  losing  of  his  temper. 
About  his  unfaithfulness  to  her  he  said  nothing.  He  was 
quite  aware  that  she  must  know,  and  he  hated  her  the 
more  for  the  knowledge;  yet,  for  a  time,  he  abated  his 
visits  to  Kiley's  Cross,  and  Nanno  saw  no  more  of  Mrs. 
Doran. 

But  this  effort  of  neutrality — an  avoidance  of  vice  and 
an  absence  of  virtue — did  not  last  for  long.  At  the 
threshing,  Mrs.  Doran  made  her  reappearance  with  the 
other  hands  who  had  been  requisitioned  to  help.  As  she 
stood  by  the  machine,  untying  one  sheaf  after  another, 
Jamesy  would  come  and  speak  to  her,  their  laughter  and 
remarks  often  reaching  Xanno's  ears  as  she  prepared  the 


132  TRAFFIC. 

meal  for  the  workers  in  the  kitchen.  At  the  sound  of  it, 
she  would  stop  in  what  she  was  doing;  her  eyes,  wandering 
to  the  window,  would  look  out  across  the  country,  flushed 
with  the  purple  of  its  heather  and  brightened  with  patches 
of  green  or  j^ellow  fields  of  uncut  corn.  All  feeling  about 
Jamesy's  unfaithfulness,  all  suffering  was  dead;  even  the 
sense  of  shame  that  it  brought,  was  numbed,  and  smarted 
no  longer.  Yet,  as  she  saw  the  brightness  of  the  sun 
outside  and  felt  that  life  in  a  world  that  could  show  such 
simple  beauty  must  have  its  better  and  its  more  perfect 
view,  a  sigh  of  regret  came  involuntarily  to  her  lips. 
There  was  such  a  thing  as  being  happy;  and  she  realized 
that  happiness — in  what  form  her  imagination  did  not 
describe — might  have  been  hers. 

But  so  long  as  these  conditions  of  her  life  remained 
the  same,  she  knew  it  to  be  impossible  to  gain  even  a 
glimpse  of  any  state  of  happiness,  however  slight,  however 
transitory.  Yet  she  would  still,  driven  by  the  sense  of 
duty  and  dominated  by  the  fear  of  her  religion,  have  con- 
tinued to  accept  them  as  they  wore,  had  not  Jamesy,  on 
that  first  night  of  the  threshing,  fallen  back  into  the  ways 
of  life  which,  for  a  time,  since  her  illness,  he  had  eschewed. 

It  was  then  that  Nanno  took  a  course  of  action  upon 
herself.  Without  telling  her  husband  of  her  decision,  she 
set  off  the  next  morning  for  Grange,  the  nearest  parish  to 
Glenlickey,  which,  united  to  that  of  Rathmore,  came  under 
the  care  of  Father  Mehan.  It  was  his  day  there  for  hear- 
ing confession;  and  to  him,  as  pastor  and  mentor  of  all 
her  doings,  she  determined  to  pour  out  her  soul. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Oh,  indeed !  Shure,  there  now — tch ! 
— tch ! — tch !  "  he  repeated  over  and  over  again,  as  she 
told  him  all  the  story;  its  revolting  details  left  unde- 
scribed,  yet  evident,  impellingly  obvious  in  the  note  of 
shuddering  remonstrance  that  trembled  in  her  voice. 


TSAFFIC.  13S 

"  An'  is  that  the  way  he's  gone,  then  ?  "  he  said,  when 
she  had  finished.  "  'Twas  always  the  way.  He  was  a 
bold  fellow:  but,  glory  be  to  God,  I  niver  thought  it  was 
as  bad  as  that  with  him.  An'  it's  the  way  ye  say  that 
this  woman's  coming  back  to  the  house?" 

"She  is,  father/" 

"  Shure,  I  know  who  it  is.  There's  no  need  for  ye 
not  to  be  tellin'  me.  I  don't  want  to  know,  mind  ye; 
shure  I  know  already.  I  do,  of  course.  There's  only 
one  woman  in  Glenlickey  that  would  brazen  it  out  like 
that.  Faith,  I  had  a  mind  meself  that  something  was 
going  wrong  with  ye — I  had  so.  When  the  docthor  told 
me  the  way  ye'd  been  beaten  a  few  weeks  ago,  I  made  up 
me  mind  to  come  and  see  ye." 

"  The  doctor  ?  "  Xanno  echoed. 

"  Shure ;  who  else  ?     Wasn't  he  attendin'  ye  ?  " 

"  But  I  told  him  it  was  the  way  I  fell  on  me  face." 

"  Shure,  I  know  that ;  but  the  docthor's  no  fooL  He 
knew  ye  couldn't  fall  on  both  sides  of  yeer  face  at  once. 
Teh !— tch  !— tch  !— tch  !  An'  what  did  ye  think  of  doin' 
about  it  yeerself  ?  " 

Xanno  hesitated.  To  her,  what  she  was  going  to  say, 
was  a  big  step ;  and,  for  a  moment,  while  she  paused  be- 
fore the  words  that  she  would  choose,  it  assumed  propor- 
tions greater  than  she  had  ever  seen  while  she  had  walked 
by  herself  into  Grange. 

"  I'm  goin'  away,"  she  said  at  last,  with  firm  decision. 
"  I'm  goin'  away.  I  couldn't  live  with  him  any  longer." 

There  was  a  long  pause  of  silence.  Nanno  listened 
with  ears  strained  for  the  slightest  sound  he  might  make 
which  would  indicate  the  attitude  of  his  mind  towards 
what  she  had  just  said.  She  heard  nothing.  Only  the 
sound  of  the  chapel  woman  scraping  the  fallen  grease  from 
the  large  candle-stand  reached  her  ears. 


134  TRAFFIC. 

At  last  he  answered  her. 

"Is  it  by  putting  one  sin  on  the  top  of  another  that 
ye  think  ye're  goin'  to  get  at  the  right  way  o'  doin' 
things  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  Sin  ?  "  she  said.  "  What  sin  is  there  in  me  goin' 
away?  Shure,  I  can't  live  with  him.  God  never  meant 
a  mortal  being  to  live  such  a  life  as  I  am." 

"  God  means  us  to  do  a  power  o'  things  that  seem  to 
have  no  reason  in  them  at  all,"  he  replied. 

"But  it's  the  way  that  it's  bringin'  more  sin  on  him. 
He  hates  the  sight  o'  me.  'Twould  only  be  drivin'  him 
to  do  worse,  I'd  be  doin',  if  I  stayed  on  wid  him." 

"Maybe  ye're  right  there/'  Father  Mehan  replied  with 
consideration.  "  But,  then,  think  again  of  the  sin  ye'd 
be  bringing  on  yeerself  away  from  him." 

"What  sin?" 

"  Shure,  the  same  that  the  world's  full  of.  Suppose 
now,  ye  went  to  America.  Isn't  it  beset  with  tempta- 
tions ye'd  be — a  good-looking  girl  like  you  ?  " 

Nanno  felt  the  blood  rising  warmly  to  her  cheeks, 
then,  as  suddenly,  it  left  her  cold,  with  the  nauseating 
sense  of  the  bitterness  and  horror  of  the  world. 

"  Ye  can't  tempt  them  that  have  no  want  to  do  wrong," 
she  cried  impulsively,  and  Father  Mehan  smiled  at  her 
knowledge  of  life. 

"  There's  a  savin'  about  an  open  door  and  a  saint,"  he 
said;  "though,  maybe,  the  man  what  wrote  it,  had  just 
been  through  one  and  wanted  to  persuade  himself  that 
he  wasn't  so  bad  after  all.  But  God  bless  us,  child,  want 
or  no  want,  ye'll  find  life  filled  with  temptation,  and 
mind  ye,  ye  haven't  got  the  easy  time  that  a  Protestant 
has  in  these  matters.  Ye  can't  divorce  yeer  husband  and 
walk  off  wid  some  one  else.  Faith,  it  'ud  make  this  world 
easy  enough  if  ye  could,  an'  if  there  wasn't  somethin'  else 


TRAFFIC.  135 

beyond  it.  '  Whom  God  hath  joined  together ' — d'ye  mind 
that — '  let  no  man  put  asunder.'  Shure,  ye  took  him  for 
better  or  for  worse,  an'  faith,  I  know  it's  bad  enough  ye're 
gettin',  but  I've  come  across  many  that  were  worse." 

Nanno  shifted  her  position  on  the  hard  board  on  which 
she  was  kneeling;  her  hands  involuntarily  clasped  them- 
selves in  perplexit}r. 

"  It's  not  the  way  I'm  thinking  of  any  other  man," 
she  said.  "  I  know  there  be  no  divorce  in  the  church — 
I  know  we  can't  marry  again." 

"  Wisha,  ye  can  marry  again  aisy  enough ;  there's  plenty 
that'll  do  it  for  ye  over  in  America,  but  you  know  what 
the  Church  has  got  to  say  to  that." 

He  paused.  There  had  been  a  note  of  question  in  his 
voice  with  what  he  had  said  and,  half  expecting  to  be 
answered,  he  waited.  Nanno  did  not  reply. 

"  The  Church'll  forgive  many  sins ; "  he  said ;  "  shure, 
'twill  absolve  a  man  from  murder,  if  he  gives  himself 
up  to  the  authorities, — but  there's  no  forgiveness  for  that. 
I'm  tellin'  ye  plainly,  mind  ye;  ye'd  be  excommunicated, 
that's  what  'ud  happen  ye.  No  church  would  let  ye  in- 
side its  doors,  an'  the  hand  o'  God  would  be  taken  off 
of  ye  forever." 

The  words  chilled  Xanno.  She  shuddered.  A  picture 
rose  in  her  mind  of  the  terrible  loneliness  of  such  a 
state.  Then,  surely,  nothing  would  be  left  but  death ;  and 
even  that  would  be  but  the  gate  into  another  life,  more 
lonely,  more  horrible  still.  She  shook  the  thoughts  away 
from  her.  How  could  such  a  case  ever  be  hers?  How 
could  the  contemplation  of  such  a  thing  ever  enter  her 
mind? 

"  I'm  only  warning  ye,  mind,"  Father  Mehan  went  on. 
"I'm  not  savin'  that  ye'd  ever  think  o'  doin'  such  a 
thing.  But  I  tell  ye  this,  that  if  ye  leave  Jamesy  and  go 


136  TRAFFIC. 

away  to  America,  the  temptation  of  it,  likely  as  col, 
might  come  in  veer  way.  'Tisn't  the  way  with  men  to 
see  a  young  girl  like  yeerself  goin'  about  alone  in  the 
world,  without  having  something  to  do  with  her  life.  Men 
make  women's  lives,  and  women  make  men's,  and  both 
spoil  each  other  sometimes.  Shure,  that's  the  way  the 
life  goes.  Nanno !  " 

"Yes,  father?" 

"  Go  back  to  yeer  husband,  Nanno, — an'  God'll  show 
ye  some  way  to  do  the  right  thing  the  first  moment  ye  enter 
the  door/' 

It  was  those  last  words  that  brought  her  to  her  de- 
cision. God  would  show  her  some  way  to  do  the  right 
thing.  All  her  faith  rose  up  and  grasped  the  belief 
of  that  and,  with  a  new  feeling  in  her  heart,  she  left  the 
chapel. 

The  dusk  fell,  and  the  evening  closed  in  as  she  walked 
back  the  five  miles  to  Glenlickey.  She  did  not  notice 
the  distance.  She  did  not  mind  that  the  roads  wore  hard, 
unyielding,  tiresome  to  her  scarce  recoverd  strength.  She 
would  so  soon  be  a  mother — she  tried  to  think  cheerfully  of 
that;  and  then  God  would  show  her.  God  would  show  her 
— how,  she  did  not  dream,  but  He  would  reveal  that,  and 
on  that  she  counted  most  of  all. 

There  was  no  sound  of  the  threshing  machine  as  she 
climbed  up  the  hillside  over  the  resisting  field  of  stubble 
to  the  farm;  but  she  had  not  expected  it.  The  evening 
had  finally  set  in,  and  she  did  not  anticipate  finding  any 
of  the  hands  there  at  all.  By  that  time,  they  had  all 
gone  home. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  kitchen  as  she  entered. 
Even  the  fire  in  the  grate  had  died  down  to  one  small 
point  of  red.  The  door  was  open.  The  place  seemed 


TRAFFIC.  1ST 

deserted.  Yet  still  she  hoped,  still  she  believed;  waiting 
for  the  sign. 

Silently  she  moved  across  to  the  fire,  thinking  that 
she  might  make  it  up  for  Jamesy's  return;  and  then,  at 
that  moment,  a  sign  was  given — hurled  at  her  with  the 
force  of  God. 

Her  foot  had  kicked  against  a  chair,  making  a  noise 
which,  however  slight,  sounded  disproportionate  in  the  sur- 
rounding stillness.  She  heard  the  murmur  of  Jamesy's 
voice  coming  from  the  bedroom,  the  door  of  it  opened 
stealthily,  and  Mrs.  Doran,  her  hair  scattered  over  her 
shoulders,  stood  peering  into  the  uncertain  light. 

God  had  shown  her  the  sign — that  was  all  she  could 
think — God  had  shown  her  the  sign.  With  a  cry  that  she 
smothered  with  her  hand,  she  ran  out  of  the  room  into 
the  yard — out  of  the  yard  into  the  fields,  and  on  and  on, 
till  she  reached  the  night. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JOHN  TROY  had  gone  into  Anesk  to  inspect  a  new  com- 
bined reaper  and  binding  machine,  and  Bridget,  her  stout 
arms  bared  to  the  elbow,  was  turning  the  wheel  of  a  cutter 
in  accordance  with  the  supply  of  turnip-tops  that  Patsy 
thrust  into  the  receiver.  The  clean,  crisp  sound  of  the 
knife  severing  the  stalks,  like  the  grinding  of  hay  between 
a  horse's  teeth,  was  kept  up  with  intermittent  pauses,  filled 
in  by  Bridget's  voice  demanding  a  greater  speed  with  the 
supply. 

No  day  in  October  could  have  seemed  more  like  the 
poetic  conception  of  Autumn.  The  sun  was  burning 
brightly  and  the  shed  under  which  they  worked,  cast 
sharp-edged  shadows  on  the  ground.  Through  the  warmtb 
of  the  sunny  air,  there  came  at  times  the  breath  of  a 
breeze  that  just  tingled  the  cheeks,  and,  as  though  in  an- 
swer to  it,  a  leaf,  brilliant  in  the  last  colors  it  had  as- 
sumed, would  flutter  from  the  trees  into  the  yard. 

Neither  of  the  workers  in  the  shed  was  conscious  of 
these  puffs  of  wind  that  each  time  called  a  leaf  to  its  last 
resting  place.  Bridget  was  too  concerned  with  hurrying 
through  her  work;  Patsy  too  engaged  in  shirking  it. 

They  did  not  even  notice  Nanno's  figure  as  she  turned 
slowly  from  the  lane  and  entered  through  the  open  gate 
into  the  yard.  She  was  almost  beneath  the  roof  of  the 
shed,  before  Bridget  looked  up.  When  she  did  see  her, 
her  hand  fell  from  the  handle  of  the  wheel  and  her  mouth 
opened  in  astonishment. 

138 


TRAFFIC.  139 

"  Glory  be  to  God,  is  that  yeerself  ? "  she  exclaimed, 
while  surprise  was  still  overmastering  curiosity. 

Xanno  nodded  her  head,  and  in  her  attitude,  there  was 
that  which  at  once  aroused  Bridget's  suspicions. 

"  What's  on  ye,  in  the  name  o'  God  ? "  she  asked. 
"  What's  on  ye  ?  "  She  pushed  Patsy  away  with  his  arm- 
ful of  turnip-tops,  and  came  out  of  the  shed.  "  What's 
happened  ye  ?  "  she  went  on  and  then,  taking  Xanno  by 
the  arm,  she  led  her  into  the  kitchen. 

When  they  were  inside,  Bridget  closed  the  door  and, 
crossing  to  the  settle,  sat  down  with  folded  arms  and 
scrutinized  her  daughter.  It  was  obvious  to  the  most  un- 
critical eye  that  something  was  the  matter.  In  Xanno's 
eyes  was  the  wandering,  unsettled  look  of  one  whose  mind 
is  wavering  with  uncertainty  and  apprehension.  Her  face 
was  white  with  the  want  of  sleep,  and  her  clothes  looked 
damp  and  clinging. 

For  two  hours  after  she  had  left  Glenlickey,  she  had 
walked  feverishly  in  any  direction  that  her  footsteps 
brought  her.  Nothing  was  conscious  to  her  mind  beyond 
the  fact  that  God  had  shown  her  a  sign.  Had  that  evi- 
dence come  at  any  other  moment,  she  might  even  have 
passed  it  by,  overlooked  it;  but  at  that  peculiar  instant, 
when  her  mind,  spurred  by  faith  and  alive  with  the  en- 
thusiasm of  belief,  was  ready  to  accept  the  slightest  token 
as  an  ispiration  of  the  divine,  she  found  it  impossible  to 
see  anything  other  than  as  a  sign  from  God:  in  what 
had  met  her  on  her  home-coming. 

When  those  two  hours  had  passed  and  her  reason  had 
adjusted  itself,  she  turned  to  the  contemplation  of  what 
she  would  do  and  where  she  would  go.  The  thought  of  re- 
turning to  Glenlickey  she  put  out  of  her  mind.  The  sign 
had  been  given  her  and  she  knew  that  she  would  never 
go  back  again.  Only  one  course  was  palpably  left  open  to 


140  TRAFFIC. 

her.  She  could  go  home  to  Rathmore.  But  even  that, 
could  not  be  followed  without  thought  or  consideration. 
How  would  Bridget  receive  her?  Could  the  hardness  of 
her  heart  ever  refuse  to  soften,  when  she  knew  the  truth — 
when  she  understood?  Xanno  climbed  over  a  hedge  and, 
taking  shelter  behind  it,  sat  down  in  the  field  on  the  coarse 
grass. 

For  some  hours  she  remained  there,  the  heavy  dew 
drenching  her  clothes,  the  cold  night  wind  seeking  out  the 
scantiest  parts  of  her  attire,  until  her  body  was  inert, 
her  mind  numbed,  and  she  was  forced  to  thrust  her 
hands  into  her  breast  to  keep  the  life  in  them.  The 
night  was  not  the  time  to  surprise  them;  she  knew  that. 
The  unexpected  return  of  any  one  at  such  an  hour  would 
only  exaggerate  the  sense  of  its  importance;  and  when 
she  thought  of  John  Troy  opening  the  door  of  the  kitchen 
and  peering  out  into  the  darkness,  she  decided  to  stay 
where  she  was. 

After  a  time  sleep  reached  her,  but  it  was  only  the 
outcome  of  exhaustion.  A  shower  of  rain  some  half-hour 
later,  awakened  her.  Then  she  lay  listening  to  the  move- 
ments of  an  animal  in  the  hedge  beside  her.  It  might 
have  been  a  weasel,  or  a  rat.  She  vaguely  wondered 
as  she  heard  it,  what  it  was  doing;  whether  in  that  lonely 
place  it  felt  as  much  alone  as  she  did.  Once  more,  then, 
she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  woke  again  the  daylight  was  beginning  to 
merge  its  way  out  of  the  east.  A  cold  and  ugly  gray  shim- 
mered in  the  sky;  it  looked  as  though  some  milky  liquid 
were  forcing  its  way  into  a  mass  of  ink.  Slowly  and 
slowly  the  gray  became  predominant,  and  the  blackness 
of  the  night  faded  away  before  it,  until  the  whole  sky, 
with  the  exception  of  one  gleam  of  light  before  her,  was 
one  thick  web  of  scarce  illumined  light.  .The  heathered 


TRAFFIC.  141 

hills  all  around  had  no  color  in  them.  Their  purple  was  a 
dead  and  faded  brown.  Nothing  stirred.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  dawn  was  breaking  on  a  world  that  was  dead.  Xo 
living  thing  answered  to  it;  even  Xanno  felt  impotent  to 
move.  But  at  last  the  gleam  of  light  in  the  east  strength- 
ened. By  infinite  degrees  it  became  more  intense,  until  at 
length  the  half-disc  of  a  white  and  pallid  sun  rose  up  over 
a  hill,  looked  at  the  world,  and  the  colors  of  things  crept 
into  them.  Yague  uncertain  shadows  fell  behind  the 
trees;  a  bird  fluttered  out  of  the  branches  and  flew  again 
into  cover.  Then  a  yellow  light  came  into  the  sun. 
Xanno  felt  the  warmth  of  it  feebly  breathing  on  her  face. 
At  last,  with  a  whirring  of  wings  and  an  oft-repeated  note, 
a  lark  rose  out  of  the  field,  soared  upwards,  and  the  day 
was  born. 

Soon  afterwards,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  There  were  some 
seven  or  eight  miles  in  front  of  her  before  she  reached 
Rathmore,  and  it  was  then,  judging  by  the  day,  well  after 
seven.  Her  blood  was  chilled,  her  body  numb.  She  could 
only  walk  with  difficulty.  Every  step  she  took  racked 
her  limbs  with  pain.  She  could  feel  that  her  lips  were 
white,  and  the  weakness  that  possessed  her,  compelled  her 
again  and  again  to  rest  by  the  side  of  the  road.  But  at 
last  Troy's  Lane  was  reached.  It  was  an  effort  beyond 
her  comprehension  by  which  she  reached  the  five-barred 
gate.  Had  the  distance  been  any  greater,  she  must  inevi- 
tably have  failed;  and  when  Bridget  led  her  into  the 
kitchen,  she  sank  on  to  the  first  chair  that  was  near,  her 
breach  coming  in  short,  labored  gasps,  that  told  of  her  ex- 
haustion. 

"  Wisha,  God  help  us,  what's  wrong  wid  ye  ?  "  Bridget 
persisted,  her  curiosity  at  last  predominating. 

"  Can  I  have  something  to  eat  first  ?  "  Nanno  asked,  as 
quietly  as  her  labored  breathing  woujld  permit.  "I'll 


142  TRAFFIC. 

tell  ye  everything  then."  She  put  out  her  hand  on  to 
the  table  to  steady  herself,  and  Bridget,  at  last  convinced 
that,  unless  she  complied  with  this  request  first,  it  would 
really  be  physically  impossible  for  her  to  hear  anything 
or  satiate  her  curiosity,  hurried  to  the  cupboard  in  the  wall 
and  produced  from  a  loaf  of  soda-bread — baked  in  the 
ashes — a  teapot,  and  the  other  necessary  ingredients  for  a 
hasty  meal. 

With  the  warmth  of  the  hot  tea,  ISTanno  revived  very 
quickly.  The  dead,  uncertain  light  left  her  eyes,  color 
crept  into  her  cheeks,  and  her  lips,  that  were  white,  as- 
sumed again  that  full  depth  of  red,  in  which  the  deepest 
note  of  her  bodily  attraction  lay. 

Bridget  watched  her  musingly  as  she  ate  the  bread  and 
butter  and  drank  the  tea. 

"  Is  it  the  way  ye  had  no  breakfast  for  yeerself  ?  "  she 
asked,  as  Nanno  poured  out  a  second  cup. 

"  It  is.     I've  had  nothing/' 

"  An'  what  in  the  name  o'  goodness  made  ye  come  away 
so  early  in  the  mornin'  ?  " 

"  'Twas  not  in  the  morning  I  came  away  at  all — 'twas 
last  night." 

"  Last  night !  Yirra,  what  the  deuce  are  ye  af  ther  doin7 
that  for?" 

Then  Nanno  told  her  everything.  Indirectly,  Bridget 
had  heard  of  the  way  that  Jamesy  was  treating  her.  She 
did  not  admit  it  to  Kanno,  but  then,  she  did  not  know 
that  his  conduct  had  been  as  bad  as  this. 

"  Wisha,  God  help  us — an'  what  have  ye  come  back  here 
for?  Tellin'  me  won't  save  the  fat  from  the  fire.  Shure, 
I  can't  do  anything  to  stop  him — deuce  o'  fear  I  can." 

For  a  moment  or  so,  Nanno  looked  steadily  out  of 
the  window.  Without  any  sense  of  observation,  she 
watched  Patsy  turning  the  wheel  of  the  cutter  for  himself. 


TRAFFIC.  143 

Had  he  been  asked  to  do  that  intead  of  feeding  the  ma- 
chine with  armfuls  of  turnip-tops,  his  labor  would  have 
been  more  willingly  given.  Even  in  Bridget's  absence  he 
worked  energetically.  But  to  Xanno  all  this  was  lost. 
Everything  seemed  blurred,  as  through  a  gauze.  In 
the  tone  of  her  mother's  voice,  in  the  impression  which 
her  question  gave,  Nanno  felt  the  impending  finality  to 
all  which  she  could  depend  upon  in  the  world.  But  it  had 
to  be  told.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  never  to  return 
to  Glenlickey.  Troy's  Farm  in  Eathmore  was  at  that 
moment  the  only  place  she  looked  to  for  security.  At  last 
she  turned  round  from  the  table  and  faced  Bridget's  in- 
quiring look. 

"  Shure,  I  don't  want  ye  to  stop  him,"  she  said.  "  Ye 
couldn't  if  ye  tried.  I'm  never  goin'  back  to  him  again. 
I've  done  with  him.  'Tisn't  the  way  one  was  meant  to 
live,  to  be  treated  as  he  treated  me.  An'  there's  no 
changin'  him  whatever.  I  want  to  come  back  here  and 
work  as  I  used  to.  I'll  help  more'n  I  ever  did  before 
I  went  abroad." 

As  one  word  followed  another,  Bridget's  face  grew  more 
and  more  contorted  with  incredulity  and  surprise.  It  was 
almost  an  unheard-of  thing  in  those  parts  for  a  woman 
to  leave  her  husband,  however  he  ill-treated  or  was  un- 
faithful to  her.  Women  suffered  lives  that  were  hell 
upon  earth ;  their  pride  was  beaten  out  of  them  with  what- 
ever instrument  came  first  to  the  man's  hand;  their 
honor  was  outraged,  their  homes  desecrated  and  impover- 
ished by  the  curse  of  drink;  yet  they  seldom  complained, 
and  only  one  in  a  hundred  had  the  courage  to  face  the 
anger  of  the  Church  or  the  satirical  mercy  of  the  world 
and  break  away  from  it  altogether.  As  a  rule,  they  took 
to  drinking  themselves  and  drowned  their  sorrows,  as 
one  drowns  an  unfledged  bird,  whenever  they  became  un- 


144  TRAFFIC. 

bearable.  The  simple,  domestic  happiness  of  a  home  was 
seldom  understood ;  but  to  think  that  her  daughter  should 
take  upon  herself  the  exception  and  decide  to  leave  her  hus- 
band, however  he  ill-treated  her,  was  more  than  Bridget 
could  understand.  It  broke  down  all  the  canons  laid 
down  by  Church  and  custom  and,  when  once  it  had  pene- 
trated her  mind  to  be  believed,  her  anger  rose  to  the 
surface  and  shone  relentlessly  in  her  eyes. 

"  Is  it  come  back  here  as  if  ye  were  never  married  at 
all  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Is  it  come  back  here  and  be  a  burden 
on  the  man  what  brought  ye  up,  an'  we  payin'  two  hun- 
dred and  thurrty-wan  pounds  to  get  a  match  for  ye? 
Yirra,  glory  be  to  God;  may  the  Lord  Almighty  give  ye 
sinse !  I'd  sooner  see  him  bate  the  deuce  out  o'  ye,  than 
have  the  shame  o'  people  seem'  ye  back  here  again — I 
would  so." 

The  old  dread  of  life  came  back  into  Xanno's  eyes  again 
as  she  listened  dully  to  what  her  mother  said.  Up  till 
then,  there  had  been  some  vague  and  childish  hope  in  her 
mind  that  she  would  find  a  home  again  in  Bathmore. 
Quaintly,  almost,  she  had  imagined  that  all  she  had  suf- 
fered during  the  past  eight  months  would  make  atonement 
to  John  Troy  for  the  conditions  of  her  birth,  and  that 
from  every  point  of  view  it  would  be  seen  right  to  protect 
and  guard  her  from  the  horribleness  of  her  existence  with 
Jamesy  Evan.  All  this  she  had  reasoned  in  a  simple  way 
with  herself,  fully  believing  it  to  be  the  only  aspect  in 
which  the  matter  could  be  regarded.  And  now,  in  less 
than  five  minutes,  she  had  heard,  from  her  mother's  own 
lips,  an  absolutely  different  point  of  view — one  without 
mercy  or  restraint — yet  one  as  legitimate  as,  those  few  mo- 
ments ago,  her  own  had  seemed  to  her. 

They  had  given  two  hundred  and  thirty-one  pounds 
to  secure  for  her  a  husband;  therefore,  what  right 


TRAFFIC.  145 

had  she  to  return  and  place  herself  once  more  upon  them 
for  support?  Life,  hard  as  she  thought  she  had  consid- 
ered it,  was  yet  not  so  easy  as  she  had  supposed.  For 
this,  indeed,  was  life;  the  bolting  of  doors,  the  barring 
of  ways  against  those  weakened  by  oppression — against 
those  hampered  by  distress.  In  an  untutored  way  she 
saw  things  as  the  scientists  see  them;  though  the  phrase, 
"survival  of  the  fittest,"  would  have  meant  nothing  to 
her.  Hampered  from  the  first  by  the  stain  of  her  birth, 
and  fettered  afterwards  by  the  chains  of  her  belief,  she  was 
not  equipped  to  battle  against  the  strong,  the  strength  of 
life's  laws  which  are  inviolable.  There  are  some  who  un- 
fit themselves  with  vice  for  the  battle  of  life;  there  are 
others  whom  circumstances  unfit;  but  Xanno  was  one  of 
those  against  whom  the  laws  of  the  universe  were  waging 
their  force;  and  struggle  how  she  might,  nothing  but  the 
hand  of  divine  omnipotence,  could  raise  her  on  to  the 
crest  of  the  wave. 

As  Bridget  finished  speaking,  Nanno  rose  slowly  to  her 
feet.  In  her  face  there  was  an  expression  of  resignation, 
in  her  eyes  lay  the  knowledge  of  her  fate.  When  human 
nature  conies  face  to  face  with  the  inevitable  it  behaves 
very  like  an  animal  that  has  struggled  for  a  time  in  the 
hands  of  its  captor  and  then  walks  quietly,  with  glazed 
eyes,  to  its  doom. 

To  Xanno,  at  that  moment,  it  seemed  the  end  of  every- 
thing. Life  had  no  road  to  offer  her. 

"  I  won't  be  staying  then,"  she  said  quietly.  "  'Tisn't 
right  I  should  be  a  burden  to  any.  'Twas  the  way  I 
thought — but  shure,  what's  that  matter  now?  Don't  be 
tellin'  himself  I  came  back.  There's  no  call  for  him  to 
know  I'm  treated  that  way.'' 

As  far  as  it  was  possible,  Bridget's  heart  softened;  the 
principal  reason  being  that  she  was  satisfied  by  the  readi- 
10 


146  TRAFFIC. 

ness  with  which  Nanno  had  fallen  in  with  her  views. 
Then,  again,  she  was  pleased  because  she  believed  that 
Nanno  was  going  back  to  her  husband,  and  the  scandal 
that  she  feared  would  be  averted.  Accordingly,  she  did 
what  at  any  other  time  would  not  have  entered  into  her 
consideration. 

"  There's  a  power  more  o'  sinse  in  ye  than  I'd  ever  have 
imagined,"  she  said  and,  with  impulsive  determination, 
she  went  into  the  bedroom  that  she  shared  with  her  hus- 
band. 

"Why  in  the  name  o'  goodness  wouldn't  ye  be  sittin' 
down  while  ye'd  be  standin'  there  ?  "  she  called  out. 

Nanno  complied  with  the  grotesquerie  of  her  request 
and  waited  until  she  returned. 

When  Bridget  came  back  into  the  kitchen,  a  piece  of 
paper,  dirty  almost  beyond  recognition,  was  flapping  in 
her  hand.  She  handed  it  to  Nanno.  It  was  a  ten-pound 
note,  scored  with  the  addresses  of  many  people  who  had 
passed  it,  begrimed  with  the  dirt  of  the  many  through 
whose  hands  it  had  come,  and  patched  with  stamp  paper 
across  a  line  where  it  had  once  been  torn  in  two. 

Nanno  looked  at  it  questioningly,  then  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  her  mother's  face.  Bridget  explained. 

"  That's  what  we  owe  Jamesy  out  o'  the  dowry,"  she 
said.  "  He  let  tin  pounds  stand  over.  Yirra,  why 
wouldn't  he?  Ye  take  it  to  him,  maybe  'tis  the  way  he's 
wantin'  it;  though  I'd  make  damn  sure  he  didn't  spend 
much  of  the  other  two  hundred  an  twinty-wan  on  ye.  Did 
he?" 

Nanno  did  not  reply.  She  took  the  note  without  real- 
izing the  value  of  what  she  held,  and  then  Bridget  ac- 
companied her  to  the  gate. 

"  If  ye  take  my  advice,"  she  said,  as  Nanno  departed, 
"  ye'll  go  into  Foley's  on  yeer  way  down  shtreet,  and  take 


TRAFFIC.  147 

a  sup  o*  whisky.  Ye'll  want  all  the  shtrength  ye've  got 
for  the  next  week  or  so.  I'd  give  it  ye  meself  if  we  had 
it/' 

Nanno  nodded  her  head  as  though  she  were  in  a  dream. 
As  though  she  were  in  a  dream,  she  stumbled  unsteadily 
down  the  lane,  the  ten-pound  note  still  grasped  uncon- 
sciously in  her  hand.  What  she  was  going  to  do,  did  not 
occur  to  her.  Life  seemed  suddenly  to  have  exhausted 
all  its  possibilities.  It  stopped  abruptly,  as  did  the  street 
of  Eathmore  with  the  sea-wall. 

When  she  reached  the  main  road,  she  stood  there,  un- 
certainly, looking  from  right  to  left  in  a  dazed  bewilder- 
ment. A  car  approached  her  from  the  village,  bumping 
laboriously  on  its  ill-formed  springs.  She  waited  and 
watched  it.  As  it  came  nearer,  she  saw  it  to  be  the  mail- 
car  on  its  way  into  Anesk.  Fitzgerald,  who  had  driven 
them  that  night  when  she  and  Jerningham  had  gone  into 
Anesk,  had  risen  to  the  position  of  mail-car  driver  since 
she  had  left  Eathmore.  He  saluted  her  with  a  broad 
smile  of  pride  upon  his  face. 

"  Good  mornin',  Xanno,"  he  said  jovially,  pulling  up 
the  horse  with  a  native  disregard  for  the  time  to  which 
he  was  a  slave.  "  Begorra,  it's  a  pity  ye  can't  be  drivin' 
into  Anesk  agen  wid  me.  D'ye  mind  the  night  I  brought 
ye  in  along  wid  Mr.  Jerningham  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  Well,  begorra,  I  must  be  gettin'  on,"  he  added,  still 
obedient  to  his  habit  of  expectoration.  "  Bigob,  I'm  a 
governmint  servant  now — tisn't  as  if  I  had  an  hour  to 
spare — it  is  not." 

He  was  just  about  to  whip  up,  when  Nanno  laid  her 
hand  detainingly  on  the  step  of  the  car. 

"Would  ye  take  me  into  Anesk?"  she  asked  im- 
pulsively. 


148  TRAFFIC. 

"  I  will,  o'course.  Climb  up  the  other  side."  He 
moved  a  mail-bag  to  make  room  for  her. 

She  obeyed  him  at  once.  It  was  not  a  moment  when 
she  wished  to  consider.  This  was  going  to  be  the  begin- 
ning of  a  new  life  to  her.  A  new  road  had  suddenly  been 
opened  up  before  her  eyes.  She  clutched  the  ten-pound 
note  tenaciously  in  her  hand ;  her  face  turned  towards 
Anesk.  Glenlickey,  Eathmore,  Troy's  Lane — they  were 
all  behind  her.  The  fresh  wind,  stinging  with  the  sea, 
blew  on  her  cheeks  and  through  her  earthen-colored  hair. 
Everything  lay  in  front.  With  that  ten  pounds — by  every 
right  her  own — she  thought  that  she  could  face  the  whole 
of  a  new  existence. 

"  Go  fast,"  she  said.     "  Drive  fast— I  like  goin'  fast." 

The  old  horse  clattered  on  like  a  mechanical  toy  and, 
growing  into  the  distance,  the  round  tower  pointed  like  a 
needle  into  the  sky  behind  her. 


BOOK  III. 


THE  WORLD,  THE  FLESH,  AND 
THE  LAW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  is  a  fallacious  idea  to  think  that  one  must  come  to 
London  to  see  life.  Life  is  evident  in  many  places,  be- 
fore one  reaches  the  vast  metropolis.  The  pivot  upon 
which  turns  the  great  human  machine  is  certainly  there; 
in  fact,  everything  is  mechanical — vice,  virtue,  work,  even 
the  mere  act  of  breathing.  One  does  not  inhale  the  air 
in  London  with  any  intention  of  benefiting  one's  lungs; 
one  does  it  mechanically,  for  the  bare  sake  of  existence. 
When,  as  inevitably  they  must  do  in  this  atmosphere,  the 
ambitions  lie  dead,  people  work  on  mechanically ;  this  man 
painting  pictures,  that  man  writing  books.  The  giving 
to  the  poor,  the  praying  to  a  God — if  done  at  all — is  car- 
ried out  with  a  mechanical  accuracy  that  will  split  hairs 
or  subdivide  into  parts  the  point  of  a  needle.  The  very 
vices,  the  very  appetites,  are  pursued  or  obeyed  with  a  me- 
chanical regularity  that  is  the  last  word  upon  scientific 
precision.  The  working  man  gets  drunk  on  Saturday 
night;  on  that  day  on  which  his  salary  is  paid,  the  young 
clerk  gratifies  his  appetites.  Those  who  can  afford  it, 
move  out  of  town  when  the  season  is  over,  and  there, 
whether  it  be  in  the  country  or  abroad,  they  are  like  ships 
without  ballast,  engines  without  lubricating  oil.  If  de- 
prived of  their  environment  for  long,  they  would  rust  or 
become  obsolete;  they  cannot  live  without  their  constant 
material  supply  of  fuel.  Action  is  never  spontaneous  with 
them;  sensation,  feeling,  or  expression — none  of  these  are 
spontaneous;  truth  is  the  least  spontaneous  of  them  all. 

151 


158  TRAFFIC. 

Their  society  is  a  mechanical  contrivance  like  a  Dutch 
clock,  the  weight  of  which  is  public  opinion  swinging  a 
pendulum  of  avarice.  Conversation  is  mechanical;  every 
one  talks  as  though  they  were  engines  in  motion,  with 
piston  rods  entering  and  receding  from  the  cylinder  at 
given  moments  that  never  vary.  The  dining  out,  the 
lunching  in,  the  going  to  theaters,  the  playing  at  bridge — 
all  these  things  are  mechanical  functions  of  the  human 
machine,  performed  with  automatic  precision  and  accuracy. 
If  a  man  once  says  what  he  feels,  if,  ignoring  the  mo- 
notonous hum  of  the  engine,  he  once  speaks  from  his 
heart — speaks  earnestly,  not  rolling  the  words  up  in  the 
tinseled  paper  of  a  jest — he  is  ostracized — condemned. 
Even  modesty  is  mechanical.  The  things  which  we  all 
know,  yet  do  not  like  to  speak  about,  are  hidden  in  songs 
or  insinuated  in  prose,  and  the  people  who  call  a  spade 
an  implement  will  pay  impossible  prices  to  listen  to  them 
for  hours.  But  once  let  those  things  be  treated  honestly 
for  what  they  are,  in  such  a  way  that  lessons  can  be  learned 
from  them,  then  society — the  clergy — the  city  itself  will 
hold  up  its  hands  in  shame.  In  London  it  is  truly  called 
a  scientific  age.  How  to  live  is  the  everlasting  question; 
never  why  to  live.  And  there  are  scientists  growing  gray 
in  their  laboratories,  striving  to  invent  a  way  to  do  it. 

This  is  life  in  London,  as  it  is  in  all  the  great  cities 
of  the  world.  Wherever  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 
in  the  name  of  God,  there  there  is  some  hope  of  getting 
at  the  truth;  but  gather  them  together  in  the  name  of  ad- 
vancement, and  the  mechanical  dirge  of  vice  and  virtue, 
right  and  wrong,  will  make  itself  the  dominant  keynote 
of  existence.  Surround  yourself  with  the  handiwork  of 
men's  fingers,  and  your  outlook  will  reach  its  limit  with 
the  fifth  storey — the  fact  that  a  sky  exists  will  be  beyond 
your  comprehension.  It  is  only  where  the  trees  grow 


TRAFFIC.  153 

straight  and  the  grass  is  green,  that  a  man  can  get  near  to 
the  heart  of  things — away  from  the  whirr  of  the  machine. 

In  this  atmosphere,  strangely  untouched  by  it,  peculiarly 
undisturbed,  Philip  Jerningham  lived,  moved,  and  had  his 
being.  In  the  daytime  he  entered  the  workshop,  where 
the  cracking  of  belts  and  the  buzzing  of  wheels,  was  almost 
deafening  to  the  ears,  and  there,  at  the  lathe  which  we  all 
must  turn,  he  wove  out  the  pattern  of  his  life.  The  com- 
petition was  keen.  He  did  not  mind  that,  While  it 
lasted,  he  gave  his  fullest  energies  to  it;  but  when  the 
house  closed  for  the  day,  when  the  men  carried  away  their 
human  machinery  for  toil  in  pleasure  and  its  kind,  Jer- 
ningham became  a  different  man.  During  those  hours 
when  he  was  at  rest,  he  lived,  and  it  was  life  that  was  not 
mechanical. 

A  dress-suit  hung  in  his  wardrobe  at  Plowden  Build- 
ings; it  was  almost  worn  out  from  want  of  use.  He  fre- 
quently smiled  when  he  looked  at  it.  When  he  went  to  a 
theater,  it  was  because  he  wanted  to  see  a  play,  not  because 
he  felt  compelled  to  witness  this  actor  and  that  actress  in 
their  latest  role.  On  these  occasions,  he  sat  in  the  pit, 
whilst  the  man  who  had  lost  money  to  him  over  a  deal  on 
'change  during  the  day,  dressed  mechanically  in  an  even- 
ing suit  and  lolled  in  the  stalls.  If  he  went  into  the 
country  for  a  week-end,  he  put  on  an  old  suit  and  departed 
by  himself.  The  absence  of  bridge-parties,  or  golf,  at  a 
wayside  inn  did  not  concern  him.  He  was  himself  his 
own  fuel,  his  own  impetus.  When  he  gratified  a  desire,  it 
was  his  own,  spontaneously  his  own;  not  one  that  he  had 
read  about  or  heard  of  another  man  possessing.  If  ever 
he  dined  out,  he  made  conversation  out  of  things  that  he 
had  thought  about  himself,  not  from  those  topics  which 
he  had  heard  discussed  at  a  luncheon  party  the  day  before. 
He  said,  moreover,  what  he  felt,  instead  of  echoing  what 


154  TRAFFIC. 

every  one  else  was  feeling.  And  for  all  of  these  reasons, 
he  was  not  a  social  success.  Accordinagly,  he  eschewed 
society,  and  avoided  that  class  of  woman  with  whom  he 
might  have  married. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  he  was  a  dull  companion 
at  a  dinner-party.  Nowadays,  a  man  who  says  what  he 
thinks  always  is.  It  is  the  being  able  to  say  the  oppo- 
site of  what  one  feels,  the  ability  to  pervert  the  truth 
with  a  smart  brilliancy,  that  makes  one  interesting  to 
one's  fellow-creatures.  The  man  or  woman  who  can  prove 
that  black  is  white,  or  defeat  the  wisdom  of  a  proverb  that 
has  guided  people's  lives  from  the  days  of  Solomon,  is  an 
acquisition  anywhere — invaluable.  Jerningham  could  not 
do  this.  He  was  not  brilliant;  he  was  never  smart.  The 
London  man  and  the  London  woman  are  shaped  in  a 
mold  of  insincerity.  Jerningham  was  as  opposite  to  the 
type  as  he  could  well  be.  It  was,  perhaps,  on  account  of 
this,  that  the  men  who  came  up  to  Plowden  Buildings 
were  apt  to  place  their  confidences  in  his  hands.  He,  at 
least,  told  them  the  truth  about  themselves,  so  far  as  he 
understood  it;  and  when  a  man  has  been  in  London  for 
some  years,  he  will  go  far  to  hear  the  truth,  if  there  is 
any  grit  left  in  him. 

From  all  this  it  may  be  inferred  that  Jerninghanrs  life 
was  comparatively  a  quiet  one.  Amongst  those  who  were 
intimately  acquainted  with  him,  he  was  known  as  the 
bachelor ;  and  not  one  of  them,  with  the  greatest  stretch  of 
imagination,  could  conceive  the  possibility  of  his  ever 
marrying.  It  was  not  because  he  shunned  women,  or  in 
any  way  adopted  the  attitude  of  a  Benedict.  Women,  as 
has  been  said  before,  had  been  to  his  rooms;  but  not  one 
of  them  had  entered  his  life.  A  photograph  of  his  mother 
stood  prominently  on  the  mantelpiece  in  his  chambers, 
but  it  was  the  only  picture  of  a  woman  that  the  room  con- 


TRAFFIC.  155 

tained.  Beyond  that,  there  were  no  photographs  of  any 
sort;  steel  engravings,  woodcuts,  and  old  prints  were  the 
only  decorations  on  the  walls.  Essentially  it  was  the  habi- 
tation of  a  bachelor;  the  rooms  of  a  man  who  loved  them 
for  the  hardness  of  their  chairs  and  the  never-varying  ap- 
pearance they  possessed.  When  a  man  lives  by  himself, 
he  never  alters  anything;  he  only  replenishes.  Chairs 
stand  forever  in  the  same  position  as  they  were  placed 
when  first  they  were  brought  into  the  room  and  a  corner 
decided  for  them.  Let  a  woman  cast  her  eye  over  the  ar- 
rangement of  things,  which  three  weeks  before  she  has 
decided  to  be  perfect,  and  nothing  is  left  alone.  Impres- 
sions to  a  woman  are  never  sacred  things. 

To  Jerningham,  returning  from  Ireland,  where  he  had 
passed  a  holiday  that  was  after  his  own  heart,  the  old  things 
in  their  old  positions  were  of  the  greatest  consolation.  He 
found  it  intensely  hard  to  get  back  again  into  harness,  but 
it  was  not  so  difficult  to  return  in  the  evening  to  the  Tem- 
ple and  seat  himself  in  the  old  wood-bottomed  chair  that 
once  he  had  unearthed  from  a  pile  of  dust  and  purchased 
in  an  auction-room. 

With  these  surroundings,  one  pictures  to  oneself  a  man 
advanced  in  years,  with  hair  that  is  gray  on  the  temples; 
but  that  is  not  accurate  of  Jerningham.  Gray's  Inn, 
Lincoln's  Inn,  Clifford's  Inn,  the  Temple,  are  filled  with 
men  living,  much  as  Jerningham  lived,  who  are  yet  young, 
yet  on  the  strenuous  side  of  life.  If  the  family  Bible, 
which  had  long  since  found  its  way  into  the  hands  of  a 
bookseller  in  the  midland  counties,  was  correct,  Jerningham 
was  only  thirty-four.  He  still  looked  at  life  out  of  young 
eyes ;  still  had  dull  visions  of  a  future.  From  what  direc- 
tion it  was  to  come  he  was  not  sufficiently  introspec- 
tive as  to  imagine;  but  whenever  a  play  stirred  him,  or  a 
piece  of  music  touched  his  inherently  unmusical  soul,  he 


156  TRAFFIC. 

fancied  that  one  day  a  woman  might  come  into  his  life, 
upset  all  his  principles,  alter  all  his  goings,  and  change 
the  invariable  positions  of  his  chairs. 

So  far,  she  had  not  made  her  appearance,  and  he  was 
sufficiently  contented  with  conditions  as  they  were,  not 
even  to  want  to  watch  for  her.  The  taking  of  things  as 
they  came,  was  his  motive.  He  had  hated  the  return  to 
work  and  city  hours ;  but  he  had  not  flinched  from  accept- 
ing it.  Perhaps  the  hardest  trial  he  had  had  for  some 
time,  lay  in  being  compelled  to  refuse  a  pressing  invitation 
from  Fennel  to  go  back  to  Ireland  the  next  summer. 
Nothing  he  could  do  would  put  any  stability  into  the  for- 
eign markets,  and  so  he  was  compelled  to  stand  at  the 
wheel.  It  had  been  a  grievious  disappointment.  The 
wild  freedom  of  the  life  he  had  lived  there  had  found  a 
lasting  echo  in  the  unconventionality  of  his  nature.  His 
interest  in  the  people  themselves,  and  most  particularly  in 
Nanno,  had  been  deeply  roused.  He  misunderstood  them, 
as  every  one  does,  and  that,  in  itself,  made  them  interest- 
ing. For  the  next  year,  the  Irish  question  had  been  one 
that  he  discussed — as  every  Englishman  does  after  his 
first  visit — with  fervid  enthusiasm. 

When,  therefore,  a  client  invited  him  to  meet  an  Irish 
member  of  Parliament  at  dinner,  he  accepted;  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  nearly  two  years  had  gone  by,  since 
he  had  been  staying  with  the  Fennels,  and  all  the  impres- 
sions that  he  had  then  received  were  dull  and  rusty. 

"  An  Irish  member  of  Parliament !  "  he  exclaimed  to 
himself.  A  representative  of  the  very  people  whom  he 
wished  to  understand — an  Irishman  of  the  Irish. 

The  dress-clothes  were  taken  down  from  the  wardrobe 
and  brushed.  The  trousers  were  unearthed  from  the  mat- 
tress of  his  bed,  where  they  had  taken  upon  themselves  an 
accumulation  of  fluff,  that  utterly  altered  the  appearance 


TRAFFIC.  r>; 

of  their  material.  He  hunted  for  white  ties,  and  could  not 
find  them ;  he  cursed  at  the  obduracy  of  his  stud-holes.  It 
was  a  social  event.  He  was  about  to  meet  a  man  who  could 
talk  to  him  on  a  topic  that  he  was  absorbingly  interested 
in.  It  was  not  going  to  be  an  ordinary  march  into  a  nine- 
course  meal,  where  }rou  had  neither  time  to  eat  nor  con- 
verse, by  reason  of  the  kaleidoscopic  passing  of  the  dishes. 
On  other  occasions,  he  would  not  have  minded  when  his 
bootlace  broke;  on  this  he  swore,  and  it  was  an  oath  of 
some  substance. 

A  hansom  took  him  West,  and,  as  he  was  being  carried 
along,  his  mind  reverted  to  the  various  impressions  that  he 
had  gleaned  out  of  Ireland  two  years  before.  With  vivid 
detail,  he  recalled  that  day  of  the  Pattern,  when  he  had 
stood  and  watched  the  line  of  supplicants  moving  round 
the  holy  well  in  Eathmore.  Clearest  above  them  all,  rose 
the  face  of  Xanno  Troy,  lit  with  the  fervor  of  a  belief 
which,  ever  since,  he  had  tried  and,  ever  since,  had  failed 
to  really  understand. 

These  reminiscences  lifted  him  completely  out  of  himself 
and,  before  he  was  actually  aware  of  it,  the  cabman  had 
pulled  up.  with  a  skidding  of  hoofs  and  a  tinkle  of  bells. 

Jerningham  walked  into  the  drawing-room  as  a  man  for 
a  wager  walks  into  a  den  of  lions.  His  reward  was  to  be 
the  Irish  member  of  Parliament. 

Mrs.  Hilton,  his  hostess,  was  engaged  in  talking  to  a 
carefully  dressed  man,  who  was  listening  to  her  in  that 
attitude  of  one  who  is  waiting  to  hear  the  sound  of  his 
own  reply.  For  Jerningham,  it  was  a  painful  moment. 
Then,  to  the  chagrin  of  the  carefully  dressed  man,  Mrs. 
Hilton  turned,  before  he  could  begin  his  answer,  and  held 
out  her  hand.  Jerningham  grasped  it  with  relief. 

"  You  just  complete  the  number,"  she  said.  "  Let  me 
introduce  you  to  Mr.  Mahony,  the  member  for  Ardcashel." 


158  TRAFFIC. 

She  effected  the  introduction  with  consummate  ease. 
"  You'll  take  in  my  daughter,"  she  added,  as  she  moved 
away. 

Jerningham  felt  a  momentary  sense  of  disappointment, 
as  he  looked  at  the  man  with  braided  trousers.  It  was  not 
exactly  that  Mahony  was  elaborately  dressed,  but  that  he 
seemed  so  potently  aware  of  the  existence  of  his  attire. 
There  was  no  suggestion  of  a  man  of  the  people  about  him. 

"  I  visited  Ireland  for  the  first  time  two  years  ago," 
Jerningham  began  tentatively. 

Mahony  nodded. 

"  So  long  as  you  only  visit  it,"  he  replied,  "  you're  all 
right.  Don't  go  and  live  there.  I've  just  come  back  from 
America.  Fine  country  that,  if  you  like." 

"  America — yes — but  Ireland " 

Mahony  interrupted. 

"  They  know  how  to  entertain  in  America,"  he  went  on. 
"You  talk  about  hospitality  and  unconventional  cosmo- 
politanism in  London — New  York  can  give  it  a  street  and 
to  spare.  I've  been  over  here  now  for  eighteen  years,  and 
never  have  I  been  so  hospitably  treated  as  I  was  for  those 
three  weeks  in  New  York." 

"  But  don't  you  live  in  Ireland  ?  "  Jerningham  asked. 

Mahony  looked  at  him  quietly  and  smiled. 

"  Live  in  Ireland  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  No,  no,  I  live  in 
London — have  done  so  for  a  good  many  years.  You  don't 
think  a  man  could  live  there,  do  you  ?  Ah,  well,  if  you've 
only  visited  it  once,  you  wouldn't  know.  How  long  were 
you  there?" 

"  A  fortnight ;  and  from  what  I  saw  of  it— 

"Well,  you  can't  see  much  in  a  fortnight.  If  you'd 
eaten  soda-bread  for  fourteen  years  or  so,  and  only  had 
meat  once  a  week,  and  that  always  mutton,  you'd  be 


TRAFFIC.  159 

glad  to  come  to  London.  There  are  places  here,  where 
you  can  get  steak." 

"  Then  living  out  of  Ireland  is  a  question  of  food  ?  " 

There  was  a  cold  gibe  in  the  back  of  Jerningham's 
voice.  The  member  for  Ardcashel  took  it  imperturbably. 

"  Figuratively — yes,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course,  senti- 
ment is  all  very  well — you  English,  though  you  do  so 
hate  to  hear  it,  are  full  of  it — but  perhaps  you're  not  ac- 
quainted with  Ardcashel  ?  There  is  a  large  work-house  on 
one  side  of  the  town  and  a  colossal  lunatic  asylum  on  the 
other.  Both  are  always  full  to  overflowing.  In  the  town 
itself  there  is  a  cattle-market,  the  cobbled  stones  of  which 
I  believe  I  have  seen  washed — there  are  also  thirty-nine 
public  houses,  which  are  known  as  the  thirty-nine  articles 

and,  for  the  rest,  we  have  the  police- "  He  turned  to  a 

lady  who  was  standing  close  at  hand. 

"  Have  you  nerved  yourself  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  For  what  ?  "  she  said. 

"Mrs.  Hilton  told  me  I  was  to  take  you  in  to 
dinner." 

Jerningham  turned  away  to  seek  out  his  partner,  and 
from  that  moment  the  dinner  became  the  function  that 
he  dreaded.  Miss  Hilton,  flaxen-haired  and  aged  to  suit 
the  convenience  of  her  mother,  was  as  a  drum  in  conver- 
sation. You  tapped  her  with  a  question;  she  emitted  a 
hollow  reply.  Jerningham  labored  through  the  first 
course  with  her,  as  people  who  are  competing  to  see  how 
much  food  they  can  consume.  A  topic  was  exhausted  with 
every  second  spoonful  of  the  soup  that  they  raised  to  their 
lips.  With  each  one,  he  said  what  he  thought;  she  re- 
plied what  she  had  heard  her  mother  say  at  dinner-parties 
extending  over  the  previous  fortnight. 

At  last  that  course  was  ended.     He  saw  with  relief  the 


160  TRAFFIC. 

half-tmptj  plate  disappear  from  before  hi«  eyes,  and  then 
a  voice  behind  his  chair  said: 

"Sherry,  sir?" 

He  felt  a  remembrance  that  gripped  him  as  a  vice  grips 
a  bolt.  For  a  brief  moment  he  did  not  answer.  He 
looked  straight  ahead.  Then  the  voice  repeated : 

"Sherry,  sir?" 

He  half  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  up. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  yes." 

It  was  Nanno — Nanno  Troy — Nanno  Troy,  dressed  as 
a  maid,  with  white  cap,  streamers,  black  dress,  and  earthen- 
colored  hair. 


CHAPTBE  II. 

IN  that  moment,  they  recognized  each  other,  and  from 
that  moment  Jerningham  scarcely  took  his  eyes  away 
from  her.  As  she  moved  from  one  guest  to  another  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  he  watched  her  face.  As  she 
asked  each  man  or  woman  the  same  question  that  she  had 
asked  him,  he  listened  to  her  voice.  But  she  was  changed 
— almost  imperceptibly,  yet  irrevocably,  she  was  changed. 
He  put  it  down  to  the  difference  of  her  dress,  to  the  com- 
plete inversion  of  her  environments.  Nanno  Troy,  in  a 
homespun  skirt,  with  uncovered  head  and  heavy  boots, 
could  not  possibly  look  the  same  as  she  would  with  a 
starched  cap  and  plain  black  cotton  dress.  He  was  con- 
tent to  account  for  it  in  that  way.  The  pathetic  drooping 
of  her  mouth,  the  solemnity  of  the  big  gray  eyes,  the 
wistfulness  of  her  expression — none  of  which  really  indi- 
cated that  she  was  perceptibly  older — all  these  he  believed 
to  be  the  result  of  the  alteration  of  her  environment. 

The  thought  that  life  might  have  come  her  way  since 
he  had  last  seen  her,  the  idea  that  she  might  have  suffered, 
might  have  encountered  experience,  never  entered  his 
head.  A  man  is  peculiarly  dense  in  seeing  the  possibilities 
of  a  woman's  existence.  He  imagines  that  she  moves 
from  childhood  into  girlhood,  girlhood  into  marriage, 
without  one  moment's  insight  into  the  seething  mass  of 
human  nature  that  is  churned  at  her  feet.  He  believes 
that  she  retains  an  untutored  spirit  of  innocence,  until 
that  moment  when,  in  his  arms,  she  learns  the  motives  of 
11  161 


162  TRAFFIC. 

men  and  women.  It  is  to  teach  her  life  that  he  marries 
her;  it  is  to  him  he  expects  her  to  look  for  all  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  that  she  is  ever  to  learn.  And  this  is 
not  a  condition  that  can  be  bought;  he  must  win  it.  In 
return,  he  sacrifices  his  freedom,  and  it  is  a  sorry  state  of 
affairs,  when  he  finds  that  he  himself  is  the  pupil — the 
pupil  of  the  child  who  has  learned  already. 

Jeringham,  calling  to  mind  the  expression  on  Nanno's 
face  as  she  made  her  round  of  the  well,  could  not  conceive 
that  the  difference  which  he  saw  in  her  was  due  to  experi- 
ence— the  result  of  suffering. 

"  What  can  a  girl  know  of  life,"  he  had  often  asked 
himself  since  his  return,  "  who  will  drink  the  water  from 
a  well  that  the  rain  has  fed,  and  believe  it  to  hold  more 
sanctity  than  any  other  gift  of  nature  ?  " 

While  each  course  of  the  dinner  was  in  mid-progress, 
she  stood  with  the  other  maids  at  the  back  of  the  room, 
and  during  those  moments  he  sometimes  tried  to  catch 
her  eye;  but  she  would  not  look  at  him.  Once  a  smile 
crept  into  his  face  to  think  that  she  was  there.  There 
were  so  many  hundreds  of  serving-maids  in  London;  but 
this  was  Nanno  Troy.  Sometimes  he  thought  that  it 
could  not  be  she.  That  shy  awkwardness  which  exists 
only  among  people  in  the  country,  and  is  a  grace  in  itself, 
had  almost  vanished  from  her.  She  moved  about  the 
room  with  a  certain  sedateness  which,  through  knowing 
her,  though  he  could  not  reconcile  it  as  being  absolutely 
natural,  was  yet  convincing  to  the  rest.  Her  voice,  too, 
notwithstanding  that  he  had  recognized  it  at  once,  was  dif- 
ferent, almost  intrinsically  altered.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
could  never  return  to  the  homespun  skirt  or  the  uncovered 
head  again,  and  for  a  moment,  he  felt  disappointed  at  hav- 
ing seen  her.  He  would  have  preferred  to  have  gone  back 
to  Ireland  and  found  her  once  more  in  the  fields,  driving 


TRAFFIC.  163 

home  the  cattle  in  the  hush  of  the  evening.  But  this,  as 
the  member  for  Ardcashel  had  said,  was  the  sentiment  of 
an  Englishman. 

At  length,  the  ladies  moved  into  the  drawing-room,  and 
Jerningham  sat  by  himself,  listening  to  the  decided  opin- 
ions of  the  Irish  member  of  Parliament,  who  was  still 
concerned  with  the  hospitality  of  America. 

"  There  wasn't  a  night,"  he  was  saying,  "  during  the 
whole  three  weeks  I  was  there,  when  I  wasn't  invited  out  to 
dinner." 

"  Did  you  go  into  any  one's  house  ?  "  asked  his  host. 

"Well — no,"  he  replied,  "but  the  restaurants  are 
good." 

Jerningham  turned  round  to  find  Xanno  handing  him 
a  cup  of  coffee.  He  always  took  it  black,  but  on  this 
occasion  he  made  her  delay  by  pouring  out  milk.  As  he 
did  so,  he  looked  up  once  into  her  face. 

Her  eyes  turned  away  from  him  and  then,  though  it 
was  but  the  briefest  moment,  he  realized  that  there  was 
a  beauty  in  her  face  that  was  compelling,  and  he  looked 
down,  to  find  that  he  was  pouring  the  milk  into  his  saucer. 

When  the  men  followed  the  ladies  into  the  drawing- 
room,  he  took  the  first  opportunity  of  seating  himself  be- 
Bide  Mrs.  Hilton. 

"  There  is  something  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  when 
the  machine  of  conversation  was  palpitating  in  every 
cylinder. 

"  Wicked  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  Xot  at  all.  I  only  want  to  know  where  you  got  your 
maid  from,  who  was  handing  round  the  wine  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hilton  smiled  archly. 

"  Well — it  sounds  wicked,"  she  said. 

"  Probably — to  ask  any  question  about  a  woman  in  Lon- 


164  TRAFFIC. 

don  is  to  imply  a  chapter  that  has  the  leaf  turned  down; 
but  there's  nothing  of  that  in  what  I  want  to  know.'' 

"Well"— Mrs.  Hilton  pouted—"!  am  going  to  tell 
you  a  fearful  domestic  secret.  She's  hired — just  for  the 
evening.  We  can't  keep  more  than  two  maids  in  a  house 
like  this ;  so  when  I  give  a  dinner,  I  get  them  in  from 
Maynard's.  Why?" 

Jerningham  invented  why. 


CHAPTEK  III. 

How  had  Nanno  become  the  neat  waiting-maid,  hired 
for  an  occasion  into  Mrs.  Hilton's  establishment?  How 
had  she  discarded  the  country  manners,  the  country  ways, 
and  taken  upon  herself  the  bearing  of  such  girls,  of  whom 
one  can  see  so  many,  quietly  dressed,  with  an  air  of  gentle- 
ness— those  girls  whom  the  necessity  of  fighting  their 
own  battle  in  life  has  neither  robbed  of  virtue  nor  respect  ? 
They  are  to  be  found  in  offices,  doing  the  work  of  men; 
they  are  to  be  seen  behind  counters,  or  attending  tables  in 
a  restaurant.  One  meets  them  in  the  early  morning,  com- 
ing from  the  suburbs  in  the  west,  seated  on  the  tops  of 
omnibuses  that  bear  them  into  the  whirr  of  the  city. 
Each  one  of  them  has  her  novel  to  read,  and  sometimes  it 
is  astonishing  to  see  the  taste  that  they  display  in  their 
choice  of  books.  The  facetious,  modern  clerk,  with  his 
paper  cuff-protectors,  who  endeavors  to  strike  up  an  ac- 
quaintance with  them,  is  treated  with  disdainful  contempt. 
They  know  the  value  of  their  virtue  and,  though  each  day 
it  is  exposed  to  the  wiles  of  life,  they  protect  it  jealously, 
assiduously.  How,  then,  did  Nanno,  from  being  the  ill- 
treated  wife  of  a  farmer  in  the  wilds  of  Ireland,  become 
one  of  these?  How  does  human  nature  invariably  adapt 
itself  to  the  constant  flux  of  change  that  whirls  us  along 
in  the  flood  of  its  tide,  yet  leaves  us  ever  fighting,  ever 
struggling  against  the  stream? 

It  is  that  unquenchable  fire  of  hope,  that  eternal  es- 
sence of  optimism,  without  which  this  "  sorry  scheme  of 

165 


166  TRAFFIC. 

things/'  could  not  continue,  that  is  responsible  for  the 
wonderful  adaptability  of  the  human  race. 

ISTanno  had  fronted  a  sea  of  troubles  since  that  day 
when.,  leaving  the  farm  in  Eathmore,  she  had  turned  her 
face  towards  Anesk  to  begin  life  all  over  again.  At  the 
maternity  hospital  in  Cork,  her  child  had  been  born  dead. 

"  Guess  you  had  some  accident  ?  "  the  student  had  said. 

"I  did,"  she  replied  quietly,  and  the  student  had  felt 
himself  to  be  a  man  of  insight. 

When  she  was  first  told  of  it,  the  bitterness  of  her 
misery  had  seemed  complete.  The  one  life  which  had 
been  created  to  understand  her,  to  give  her  love  and  look 
to  her  for  its  dependence,  she  had  been  deprived  of.  For 
the  few  days  during  which  she  lay  in  that  dreary,  un- 
carpeted  room  and  listened  to  the  rumbling  of  the  carts 
that  passed  by  in  the  street  below,  she  thought  that  the 
last  blow  had  been  given,  the  last  stitch  removed  from  the 
fabric  of  hope,  which  she  had  so  persistently  drawn  about 
her. 

But  when  once  she  was  able  to  move  about,  she  saw 
things  differently.  If  from  thenceforth,  she  was  to  be 
her  own  power  of  existence ;  if,  through  all  the  future,  she 
was  to  look  to  herself  for  her  own  support,  then  the  death 
of  her  child  had  been  but  a  deliverance  of  Providence  from 
a  vital  responsibility.  She  knew  sufficiently  of  the  world, 
to  realize  that  a  woman  with  a  child  and  no  husband  starts 
life  with  a  handicap  that  is  well-nigh  impossible  to  work 
away. 

So  fully  did  she  realize  this  that,  the  morning  on  which 
she  left  the  hospital,  her  prayers  were  concerned  with 
thanking  God  for  her  deliverance;  yet  the  moment  that 
she  had  crossed  herself,  she  cried  as  though  her  heart  would 
break. 

LTwo  days  later,  when  the  sum  of  her  capital  was  be- 


TRAFFIC.  167 

ginning  to  lessen  and,  when  various  efforts  to  apply  for 
employment  of  any  kind  had  met  with  unsuccess,  she  en- 
countered Nancy  Foley,  whose  expulsion  from  Eathmore 
she  had  witnessed  with  such  intensity  of  horror  nearly 
two  years  before. 

In  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting,  the  distressed 
girl  would  have  avoided  Nanno  had  it  been  possible.  She 
turned  hastily  away,  but  Nanno  followed  and  laid  her 
hand  detainingly  on  her  arm. 

"  Shure,  Nancy,"  she  said,  and  the  tone  of  her  voice 
was  irresistible.  The  girl  faced  her. 

"  Why  d'ye  speak  to  me  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Weren't  you 
one  o'  the  girls  that  turned  me  out?" 

"I'd  have  begged  'em  not  to  do  it,  if  a'  be  I'd  seen  it 
was  any  use." 

For  a  moment  Nancy  looked  at  her  incredulously. 

"  Ye  wouldn't  think  what  I'd  done  a  sin  ?  "  she  said. 

"It  don't  be  a  question  o'  whether  things  be  sins  or 
not,"  said  Nanno  quietly — "  but  o'  how  they're  goin'  to 
be  punished — whether  they're  goin'  to  be  done  agen,  and 
who's  goin'  to  forgive  'em.  "Pis  the  doin'  o'  things  when 
they've  once  been  forgiven,  that  makes  'em  sins  indeed." 

Nancy  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Who  taught  ye  that?  "  she  asked. 

Nanno  sighed.  Experience  had  been  her  master,  but 
no  woman  cares  to  admit  it.  She  said  nothing.  Then 
Nancy  slipped  her  arm  through  hers  and  together  they 
walked  through  the  streets,  Nanno  listening  to  all  the  con- 
fidences which  her  companion,  with  feverish  haste  and 
relief,  poured  into  her  ears ;  confidences  which,  up  till  then, 
she  had  been  the  only  one  to  share  with  herself ;  confidences 
which  were  dragging  at  her  heart  and  embittering  every 
thought  she  had  of  life. 

When  she  had  finished  Nanno  raised  her  head. 


16S  TRAFFIC. 

"  Will  ye  do  something  if  I  ask  ye  ?  "  she  said. 

Xancy  nodded.  With  the  rush  of  relief  that  was  over- 
whelming her,  she  would  have  done  anything. 

Nanno  brought  her  to  the  church  of  Holy  Trinity  and, 
when  the  doors  had  swung  to  behind  them,  she  had 
whispered : 

"  Go  to  confession — shure  this  is  just  what  God  meant 
it  for." 

When  that  was  over,  and  the  repentant  girl  had  sobbed 
away  her  tears  of  gratitude  in  a  shadowed  corner  of  the 
church,  they  went  home  together,  to  the  room  where  Nanno 
was  lodging,  and  talked  over  their  plans  for  the  future. 
As  yet,  both  of  them  were  unable  to  look  to  anything  defi- 
nite, though  Nancy  had  written  to  London,  applying  for 
a  situation,  the  advertisement  of  which  she  had  seen  in 
the  local  papers.  It  was  her  determined  intention  to  leave 
Ireland  as  soon  as  she  possibly  could.  If  this  application 
which  she  had  made,  were  to  fall  through,  she  had  decided 
to  go  to  America,  whence  a  brother  of  hers  had  departed 
some  five  years  before.  They  talked  about  the  possibility 
of  it  then,  as  they  sat  there;  and  at  last,  remembering 
that  two  posts  had  been  delivered  since  she  had  left  her 
lodgings  that  morning,  Nancy  said  she  would  go  and  see 
if,  by  any  chance,  an  answer  to  her  application  might  not 
have  arrived.  Nanno  accompanied  her.  A  letter  was  ly- 
ing in  the  passage,  underneath  the  aperture  of  the  door. 
Nancy  seized  it  eagerly.  She  tore  it  open,  pulled  out  its 
contents  and,  from  the  folds  of  the  paper,  a  postal  order 
fluttered  to  the  ground. 

"  Yeer  fare  to  London,"  Nanno  said  quietly. 

Nancy  looked  at  it  incredulously.  She  read  through 
the  letter  with  only  a  dazed  conception  of  what  it  con- 
tained. 

"Bead  it,"  she  said,  handing  it  to  Nanno;  and  then 


TRAFFIC.  169 

she  stooped  down  to  pick  up  the  slip  of  paper  on  the 
floor. 

"  They  want  ye  to  go  on  Thursday,"  1ST  anno  said,  when 
she  had  glanced  through  it.  "  That's  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

The  tears  rushed  into  Nancy's  eyes.  Xow  that  the  part- 
ing had  actually  come,  and  she  had  really  found  a  friend  to 
leave  behind,  the  bitterness  of  it  seemed  overwhelming. 

"  But  what'll  ye  be  doin'  wid  yeerself  ?  "  she  asked. 

Nanno  looked  down  the  passage  at  the  narrow,  un- 
carpeted  stairs  that  led  up  to  the  bedroom.  For  a  moment, 
she  put  both  hands  over  her  face.  Nancy  could  hear  the 
breath  passing  between  her  fingers.  Then  she  looked  up. 

"  I'll  be  eomin'  with  ye,"  she  replied  and,  scarcely  be- 
fore the  words  had  left  her  lips,  she  found  Nancy's  arms 
about  her  shoulders,  the  hot  tears  from  her  eyes  upon  her 
neck. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

So  had  Nanno  come  to  London.  It  frightened  her  at 
first.  The  ceaseless  rushing  of  vehicles,  the  endless  pass- 
ing of  people — all  heedless,  unconscious  of  her  existence, 
except  those  who  evinced  a  momentary  interest  in  her  face 
— depressed  her  with  a  sense  of  loneliness.  These  were, 
for  the  most  part,  men  whose  eyes  happened  on  the  danger- 
ous humanity  of  her  mouth,  or  the  wistful  dependence  of 
her  expression.  Whenever  one  of  them  looked  at  her — 
as  men,  noting  these  things,  do  look  at  a  woman — she  hur- 
ried by  with  thoughts  reverting  to  what  Father  Mehan 
had  said  to  her  in  confession.  Once,  out  of  spontaneous 
curiosity,  she  had  looked  back  over  her  shoulder.  She 
had  wondered  whether  the  man's  apparent  interest  in  her 
would  have  continued  when  they  had  passed.  She  found 
that  he  was  looking  round  as  well.  When  he  saw  her 
action,  he  stopped.  She  turned  away  again  and  hurried 
on,  her  heart  beating  jerkily  with  apprehension. 

For  the  first  fortnight,  although  she  applied  for  many 
of  the  situations  which  she  saw  advertised  in  the  papers, 
she  could  not  succeed  in  getting  occupation. 

"  Have  you  done  this  kind  of  work  before  ?  "  she  was 
asked  in  every  instance.  And  when  she  had  replied  in  the 
negative,  the  persons  interviewing  her  had  pursed  their 
lips,  shook  their  head,  glanced  at  her  face,  and  said, 
"  Good  morning."  She  realized  in  those  days  how  little 
the  world  cares  or  sympathizes  with  any  one  who  is  out- 
side the  pale  of  its  personal  consideration.  Want,  deg- 

170 


TRAFFIC.  171 

radation,  pain,  misery,  only  appeal  to  the  sympathies  of 
those  who  are  directly  or  indirectly  affected  by  them.  The 
Good  Samaritan  will  forever  be  an  allegory. 

Yet  Nanno  did  not  despair.  The  ease  with  which 
Nancy  had  obtained  her  position  in  a  comfortable  home, 
gave  her  heart  to  persevere.  The  only  thing  that  had 
frightened  her  was  the  minimum  to  which  her  capital 
had  been  reduced.  She  had  still  possessed  the  sum  avail- 
able for  one  more  week  at  her  lodgings,  which  included  a 
simple  breakfast,  whose  simplicity  consisted  of  lack  of 
quantity  rather  than  plainness  of  quality,  when  she  ap- 
plied for  a  vacant  situation  in  the  restaurant  of  Maynard's 
stores. 

The  man  who  had  interviewed  her,  was  one  of  those  in- 
dividuals, who — pitiable,  no  doubt — in  the  meager  frock 
coat,  thin  trousers,  and  scanty  underclothes,  was  a  god  in 
the  presence  of  an  inferior.  He  towered  above  Nanno, 
who  was  far  from  being  small  in  height,  and  his  hands 
clasped  each  other  underneath  his  coat  behind  his  back. 

"  Ever  been  in  a  restaurant  before  ? "  he  had  asked, 
criticizing  her  face  with  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  not,  sir." 

"  Irish — aren't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  had  smiled  sententiously.  He  felt  a  man  of  the 
world,  though  he  only  left  Shepherd's  Bush  behind  him 
on  Sundays. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you'd  know  how  to  bring  tea  and 
things  to  people  if  they  asked  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  would,  sir." 

"  Ever  been  in  service  ?  " 
She  shook  her  head. 

"  What  side  would  you — er — approach  a  person  whom 
you  were  going  to  — er — serve  ?  " 


17-3  TRAFFIC. 

He  had  put  the  question  directly,  and  she  had  known 
.that  her  chance  of  getting  the  situation  lay  in  giving  a 
direct  answer. 

"  The  left-hand,  side,"  she  had  said  without  hesitation. 
Had  she  paused,  she  knew  it  would  have  lost  her  the 
chance,  as  surely  as  saying  the  wrong  thing.  She  guessed, 
and  he  nodded  his  head — satisfied. 

"  You  couldn't  wait  at  a  dinner-table,  I  suppose  ?  "  he 
had  asked. 

"  I  could  not,  sir." 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  replied,  "  that  wouldn't  matter  so  much. 
We  undertake  to  teach  you  that."  He  gave  her  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  a  member  of  the  firm.  She  went 
away,  in  fact,  with  the  belief  that  he  was  Mr.  Maynard, 
not  knowing  that  there  was  no  such  person. 

"  Are  you  accustomed  to  hard  work  ? "  he  went  on, 
studying  her  face  with  the  same  persistence.  She  felt 
his  eyes  watching  her  mouth.  "  Hard  work,  I  mean," 
he  had  added. 

A  curious  smile  came  into  her  eyes.  A  thousand  re- 
membrances were  passing  through  her  mind. 

"I  am,  indeed,  sir,"  she  had  answered,  and  a  ring  of 
conviction  accompanied  her  words. 

He  stroked  his  mustache  lovingly. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  out  of  personal  curiosity. 

"  Twenty-one." 

A  light  of  more  evident  interest  came  into  his  eyes. 
He  stood  watching  her  silently,  all  the  while  endeavoring 
to  extract  something  from  his  teeth  with  his  tongue,  and, 
in  the  effort,  making  sounds  that  she  felt  disgusted  with. 
It  was  a  habit  that  was  inseparable  from  him,  and  was 
the  basis  of  her  first  impression  of  dislike. 


TRAFFIC.  173 

"  You'd  look  very  well  in  the  caps  we  provide."  he  told 
her. 

She  said  nothing  to  that.  Then  he  smiled  encour- 
agingly. 

"  You've  got  a  remerkably  pretty  mouth — did  you  know 
that?" 

He  said  it  in  a  way  that  had  seldom  failed  before  with 
girls  of  Xanno's  class.  He  thought  he  knew  exactly  the 
effect  that  it  produced.  Usually,  they  giggled  affectedly. 
Nanno  had  merely  turned  away. 

"  Did  you  know  that  ?  "  he  repeated,  with  a  trace  of  au- 
thority. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  did  not,  sir,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  smiled  again.  Of  course  she  did  know  it,  he  had 
told  himself.  He  had  not  gleaned  an  experience  of  wo- 
men, to  he  deceived  so  easily.  But  the  unconscious  way 
in  which  she  had  denied  it,  attracted  him. 

"  Well,  look  here,"  he  had  concluded  confidentially,  giv- 
ing her  the  impression  that  he  was  exerting  his  own  gener- 
osity— "come  along  here  to-morrow  morning  at  eight- 
thirty  sharp,  and  I'll  give  you  a  week's  trial." 

She  had  thanked  him  genuinely  and,  watching  her  re- 
treating figure,  he  had  smiled,  then  turned  to  regard  him- 
self in  one  of  the  long  mirrors  with  which  these  places 
endeavored  to  give  an  impression  of  space.  The  reflection 
suggested  that  he  might  curl  his  mustache  a  little  more. 
He  obeyed  the  suggestion.  Two  girls  behind  a  counter 
in  the  distance  watched  him  with  ironic  merriment. 

The  next  morning  at  eight-thirty,  Nanno  was  in  her 
place.  It  was  all  a  little  strange  at  first.  The  ladies  who 
.had  come  into  Maynard's  for  shopping  and  needed  tea  or 
lunch,  were  not  the  highest  examples  of  patience.  Wo- 
men, intent  upon  purchases  for  their  attire,  seldom  arc. 


174  TRAFFIC. 

The  true  spirit  of  combat  is  exemplified  in  them  when  they 
approach  a  milliner's  counter.  These  ladies  did  not  come 
to  take  a  comfortable  meal,  unless  it  might  so  happen  that 
their  shopping  was  over,  and  even  then,  a  slight  delay  in 
supplying  them  with  their  wants  was  dangerous.  jSTanno 
felt  that  everything  and  everyone  was  clamoring  for  her 
attention  at  once.  By  the  end  of  that  first  day  she  was  ex- 
hausted. 

Then  the  routine  of  it  began  to  grow  on  her.  Mr. 
Mossop,  the  individual  who  had  accorded  her  the  week's 
trial,  came  to  the  superintendent  of  the  restaurant  at  the 
end  of  that  time  and  asked  her  what  she  thought  of 
Nanno's  abilities. 

The  superintendent  was  approaching  the  age  of  thirty- 
one,  and  Mr.  Mossop  had  once — three  years  before — been 
attentive  to  her.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  Xanno  was 
attractive,  and  it  goes  without  saying  that  she  knew  her 
Mr.  Mossop.  There  was  nothing  that  she  could  think  of 
to  say  against  Nanno,  and  so  her  lip  merely  curled  in 
casual  consideration  as  she  had  replied  to  his  question — 

"  As  good  as  the  rest — no  better — what  I  mean " 

Mr.  Mossop  had  bowed. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  had  replied  and,  crossing 
to  Nanno,  he  told  her  she  might  consider  herself  engaged. 

The  knowledge  that  she  had  succceeded  inclined  her, 
from  simple  gratitude,  to  work  the  harder;  and  in  three 
weeks'  time  she  was  as  useful  in  the  restaurant  as  any 
of  them.  Every  night,  before  she  retired  to  bed,  she 
thanked  God  in  her  prayers  for  His  infinite  wisdom  in 
helping  her  to  choose  the  life  she  had  adopted.  She  did 
not  mind  the  hard  work ;  she  even  found  continual  interest 
in  it.  The  constant  change  of  people — some  of  whom  oc- 
casionally addressed  remarks  to  her — was  as  sufficiently  a 
food  for  her  mind  as  to  alter  her  entire  outlook  on  life. 


TRAFFIC.  173 

There  was  also  a  string  band  during  the  hours  that  meals 
were  served,  and  she  was  not  without  that  love  of  music  in 
her  soul  which  tells  of  a  strong  natural  force  of  emotion. 

To  this  band,  there  were  only  three  performers  —  a  vio- 
lin, a  'cello,  and  a  piano.  The  girl  who  played  the  violin, 
interested  her  unceasingly:  her  playing  was  certainly  by 
no  means  above  the  average,  but  whenever  Xanno  was  for 
a  moment  at  rest,  she  would  watch  her  with  increasing  ad- 
miration. She  hugged  her  instrument  to  her  as  die 
played,  as  thought  she  loved  it.  Her  bow-arm  swung 
so  gracefully  to  and  fro,  as  if  it  moved  uneonseioasly;  and 
snsnpHmps  the  strings  throbbed,  and  sometimes  they  cried; 
sometimes  they  seemed  almost  to  laugh,  and  sometimes  to 
whisper.  To  Xanno,  who  had  never  in  her  life  heard  any- 
thing better  than  the  blind  fiddler  who  had  played  the 
square  dances  at  her  wedding,  this  girl  was  possessed  of 
strange  and  wonderful  intelligence. 

One  day,  she  had  seen  Xanno  watching  her  *"d  «h«i 
smiled,  laying  her  cheek  caressingly  «g?THf*  the  violin. 
A  little  while  afterwards,  while  she  was  resting,  she 
beckoned  to  Xanno  as  she  passed. 

"  Do  you  play  ?"  she  had  whispered. 

Xanno  shook  her  head. 

"  I  wish  I  did,"  die  had  answered. 

From  that  moment  had  sprung  op  an  acquaintance  be- 
tween them,  which  had  lasted  as  long  —  longer  even  than 
her  connection  with  Juavnarors,  Limited. 

And  ihigp  briefly,  was  Xanno's  new  i  liiliiitr  Being 
an  attendant  in  the  restaurant,  she  was  paid  a  higher  wage 
--.--  _-.:'.  -':.  —  :--.-'_  -/_:::: 


cordingly,  expected  to  live  oat,  as  they  eipiBamd  it.  The 
term  implies  that  she  did  not  sleep  in  those  dnmioVa 
which  Maynard's  supplied  for  their  employees,  hot  paid 
for  lodgings  of  her  own—  a  fact  upon  which,  as  she 


176  TRAFFIC. 

to  know  the  establishment  better,  she  never  ceased  to  con- 
gratulate herself. 

In  a  little  house  amongst  a  row  of  many  other  pre- 
cisely similar  little  houses,  in  a  little  street  off  the  Fulham 
Road,  she  had  found  a  bedroom,  which  combined  the  use 
of  a  sitting-room,  for  the  sum  of  ten  shillings  a  week. 
Her  breakfast — in  fact,  all  her  meals,  excepting  those  on 
Saturday  afternoon  and  Sunday — were  provided  by  the 
restaurant;  and  the  eigth  shillings  that  remained  out 
of  her  wages  she  carefully  put  aside.  Sometimes  ladies 
or  gentlemen  who  had  said  something  to  her — asked  her 
for  an  illustrated  paper  or  requested  her  to  suggest  an 
item  to  the  band — would  leave  some  coppers  under  the 
plate  on  the  table.  Gratuities  were  not  forbidden.  And 
these  unexpected  sums,  she  spent  upon  little  adornments 
for  herself  or  her  bedroom.  As  time  went  on  she  came  to 
take  a  quaint  pride  in  her  surroundings.  She  bought  a 
picture  of  the  Sacred  Heart  and  hung  it  over  her  bed :  she 
purchased  simple  vases,  and,  whenever  flowers  were  not  too 
expensive,  iilled  them  with  gentle-smelling  violets  that 
brought  a  perfume  of  the  country  into  the  room.  Then  a 
new  interest  had  come  into  her  life — she  began  to  read. 
Miss  Shand,  the  girl  who  played  the  violin,  had  lent  her  a 
novel,  and  she  read  it  during  the  whole  of  one  Sunday. 
Novels  had  never  reached  her  in  Ireland.  As  a  bundle 
of  fancies,  she  had  heard  Father  Mehan  disparage  them 
from  the  pulpit  and,  until  then,  had  never  cared  to  look  at 
them;  but  from  that  time  they  became  a  constant  source 
of  companionship.  She  saw  life  from  different  points  of 
view.  While  she  read,  she  became  the  characters  that  were 
before  her,  until  she  lived  with  them. 

And  all  this  time,  Mr.  Mossop  had  been  studiously 
watching  her.  Whenever  he  entered  the  restaurant,  he 
curled  his  mustache  carefully  beforehand.  The  superin- 


TRAFFIC.  177 

tendent  surveyed  them  jealously  when  he  was  speaking 
to  her.  Mr.  Mossop  never  passed  through  the  room  with- 
out making  some  remark  to  her,  and  it  usually  conveyed 
a  compliment,  clumsily  expressed  and  suggestively  de- 
livered. But,  much  as  she  disliked  this  form  of  atten- 
tion, Xanno  knew  that  she  could  not  openly  snub  him. 
Her  position  depended  entirety  upon  his  clemency,  and 
she  dared  not  offend  the  sense  of  dignity,  more  essential 
to  him  than  the  clothes  he  wore. 

Once,  he  had  asked  her  lightly  where  she  lived,  and 
when  she  had  vaguely  told  him  the  district,  he  had  smiled 
henignly,  howing  as  though  she  were  a  customer. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  had  replied,  with  assumed  polite- 
ness, "your  address  is  registered  upstairs  in  the  office. 
There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  tell  me." 

For  the  next  few  days,  she  had  expected  that  any  even- 
ing he  might  come  and  see  her,  but  when  he  made  no  ap- 
pearance, she  thought  her  fears  were  groundless. 

A  week  later,  as  the  establishment  was  being  closed,  he 
had  brought  her  a  bunch  of  lilies. 

"  They  are  my  favorite  flower,"  he  had  said  sentiment- 
ally. "  Pure — that's  what  they  are — pure."  He  looked 
at  her  with  languid  eyes,  an  expression  that  he  had  always 
found  to  be  irresistible.  "Like  you,"  he  added — "like 
you."  Then  he  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  worrying  his 
teeth;  and,  thanking  him  hurriedly,  Xanno  had  turned 
away,  the  lilies  held  listlessly  in  her  hand. 

With  the  quickness  of  a  woman's  perception,  she  saw 
that  he  was  a  man  who  would  quickly  resent,  not  hesi- 
tating to  work  that  resentment  at  the  sacrifice  of  others; 
but  with  the  gentleness  of  a  woman's  timidity,  she  did  not 
know  how  to  treat  him.  A  man  of  that  nature,  placed 
in  authority  over  any  one,  will  always  drive  until  he  is 
driven.  Xanno  felt  the  weight  of  his  authority  so  strongly 
12 


178  TRAFFIC. 

that,  through  want  of  experience,  she  feared  it  in  pro- 
portion. 

At  last,  one  Sunday  afternoon,  when  she  was  reading, 
the  event  that  she  had  for  some  time  dreaded,  came  to 
pass. 

The  landlady  opened  her  door  and  said  that  a  gentle- 
man named  Mr.  Mossop  wanted  to  see  her. 

"  Did  you  say  I  was  in  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

The  landlady  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Well,  aren't  yer  ?  "  she  said. 

Nanno  nodded. 

"  Could  I  see  him  in  the  sitting-room  ?  "  she  inquired. 

The  landlady  sniffed. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  said  at  length.  "  'E's  got  a  butt'n- 
hole  in  'is  coat,  and  'e  looks  respectable.  Mind  yer,  I 
don't  allow  visitors  as  a  rule.  There  was  a  girl  here 
once " 

"  Well,  couldn't  you  tell  him  that  ?  "  ISTanno  interrupted, 
full  of  hope.     "  I  don't  want  to  see  him." 
.   Mrs.  Hudson  shook  her  head. 

"  'E  looks  respectable,"  she  repeated,  as  though  she  had 
not  heard  Nanno's  last  remark,  "  so  I  don't  hobject — just 
for  this  once,"  and  with  that  she  closed  the  door. 

Nanno  put  away  her  book  and  gazed  out  of  the  window. 
What  Father  Mehan  had  said  about  men  was  quite  true  she 
thought.  She  wondered,  simply,  how  he  had  known. 

After  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Hudson  had  returned  and 
announced  that  Mr.  Mossop  was  waiting  in  the  sitting- 
room. 

"  'E's  got  a  silk  'at  on,"  she  added.  "  It  surprises  me 
'ow  you  girls  get  'old  of  gentlemen  like  'im.  I  didn't, 
when  I  was  your  age." 

Nanno  did  not  reply.     She  walked  through  to  the  sit- 


TRAFFIC.  179 

ting-room,  as  though  she  were  about  to  face  another  or- 
deal of  being  engaged  for  a  fresh  situation. 

Mr.  Mossop  rose,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as  she  en- 
tered. 

"  I  took  the  liberty,"  he  said,  carefully  choosing  his 
words,  "  of  dropping  in.  I  happened  to  be  passing." 

"  'Twas  very  good  of  you,"  she  said.  "  Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

He  obeyed  awkwardly,  still  holding  'his  hat ;  and  for  the 
next  few  minutes  their  conversation  had  been  strained 
and  uncomfortable.  The  pose  of  authority  had,  for  the 
time  being,  fallen  from  him.  He  felt  ill  at  ease.  Xanno 
was  not  conscious  of  being  so  afraid  of  him  as  when  he 
talked  to  her  in  the  restaurant. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  have  tea,"  she  said  after  a  while. 
"  Would  you  be  liking  any  yourself?  " 

"  How  charmingly  you  put  that !  "  he  said.  "  I  should 
like  it  very  much  indeed." 

She  rang  the  bell  and  asked  Mrs.  Hudson  to  bring 
up  tea  for  them  both.  The  landlady  went  away,  telling 
her  husband  that  Miss  Troy — as  such  Xanno  had  de- 
scribed herself — would  likely  be  married  in  a  few  weeks. 

As  soon  as  she  had  left  the  room,  Mr.  Mossop  rose  and 
walked  restlessly  round  the  room,  glancing  at  the  tawdry 
oil-paintings  of  stormy  seas  that  hung  on  the  walls.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  came  hesitatingly  to  her  side. 

"  You're  very  comfortable  here,  Miss  Troy,"  he  said 
and,  with  an  assumption  of  paternal  demonstration,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Xanno  felt  the  blood  weaken  in  her.  Her  limbs  seemed 
suddenly  to  lose  their  strength.  For  a  moment  she  was 
powerless  with  a  sense  of  apprehension ;  and,  in  that  mo- 
ment, thinking  that  she  did  not  resent  his  attention,  he 
bent  over  her,  bringing  his  face  close  to  hers. 


ISO  TRAFFIC. 

"  Wouldn't  you  give  me  a  kiss  ?  "  he  said.  There  was 
a  tone  of  maudlin  sentiment  and  passion  in  his  voice. 
She  heard  it  in  his  throat.  Then  she  rose  hastily,  up- 
setting his  balance  in  her  endeavor  to  get  away.  He 
looked,  and  rather  felt,  a  fool. 

"  Are  you  vexed  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Shure,  I  am,  of  course,"  she  replied. 

"  What  for  ?  There's  no  harm  done."  He  straight- 
ened himself  to  his  extreme  height.  "  Good  heavens ! 
there's  many  a  girl  in  your  position  'ud  take  it  a  compli- 
ment— what  I  mean,  they  wouldn't  start  up  in  a  fuss,  like 
what  you  do." 

Nanno  said  nothing.  It  was  the  wisest  and  best  course 
for  her  to  adopt.  Had  she  expressed  what  was  in  her 
mind,  he  would  only  have  felt  the  more  incensed. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  "  he  went  on,  when  she 
remained  silent.  "  Haven't  I  shown  you  every  considera- 
tion since  you've  been  attendin'  in  the  restaurant  ? " 
When  emotion  controlled  Mr.  Mossop  he  frequently 
dropped  his  g's,  but  never  his  h's.  "  Who  have  you  to 
thank  for  gettin'  into  Maynard's  at  all  ? "  he  persisted. 
"  Am  I  nobody,  as  if  I  was  to  be  treated  like  a  bit  of  dirt — 
as  contemptuosly  as  what  you  are  ?  Am  I  ?  " 

There  was  a  note  of  aggression  in  his  voice  that  fright- 
ened her.  She  knew  that  he  controlled  her  period  of 
service  at  Maynard's  and  could,  by  adroit  misrepresenta- 
tions, so  prejudice  her  employers  against  her,  that  she 
would  be  dismissed. 

"  Shure,  I'm  sorry,"  she  replied  at  last,  turning  to- 
wards him.  "It  wasn't  the  way  that  I  meant  anything 
disrespectful.  I'm  sorry." 

Mr.  Mossop  looked  at  her  more  benignly.  He  felt  that 
she  was  under  his  thumb.  It  seemed  all  so  preposterously 
simple.  He  had  only  to  say  "  Bah !  "  in  a  terrifying 


TRAFFIC.  181 

voice  and,  with  frightened  eyes,  she  was  at  his  heels.  There 
was  no  element  even  of  sport  in  it;  but  then,  Mr.  Mossop 
did  not  care  for  sport.  He  was  essentially  a  man  who 
bullied  women.  There  is  a  playing  of  the  game,  even  in 
these  matters,  but  he  was  neither  fitted,  nor  did  he  care  for 
it. 

Her  apologizing  to  him  on  that,  the  very  first  occasion, 
had  enabled  him  to  take  up  the  position  that  he  always 
assumed  with  women;  and  he  only  dealt  with  those  who 
came  under  his  own  personal  authority.  This  position 
was  one  of  terrorizing  them,  to  which  he  resorted  when  his 
own  physical  blandishments  failed.  In  the  case  of  Xanno, 
he  believed  that,  with  time  and  care,  he  could  terrorize 
her  into  all  that  he  required  and,  content  for  the  moment 
to  acknowledge  a  postponement,  he  had  accepted  her  apol- 
ogy with  what  he  considered  was  remarkably  good  grace. 

"  Don't  say  any  more  about  it,"  he  said  at  once.  "  Per- 
haps I  was  a  little  carried  away — I  admit  it.  I've  told 
you  before  you're  an  attractive  girl — quite  attractive." 

He  had  stopped  abruptly  as  Mrs.  Hudson  brought  in 
the  tea  and  then,  still  dreading  every  moment  lest  he 
should  repeat  his  attentions,  she  sat  down  again  and  poured 
out  a  cup  for  him. 

"  You're  the  first  Irish  girl  I've  ever  known,"  he  said 
when  he  had  half  finished  it.  "  What  I  mean,  known  any 
way  well,  intimately." 

She  shuddered  mentally  at  the  last  word. 

"  Am  I  ?  "  she  said. 

"Urn — "  His  mouth  was  filled  with  bread  and  butter 
at  the  time ;  no  other  word  was  possible. 

"  What  part  of  Ireland  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

Xanno  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"The  south." 

"Beautiful,  isn't  it?" 


182  TRAFFIC. 

"  Some  parts  of  it  are." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  going  to  see  the  Lakes  of  Killarney 
next  summer  holidays,"  he  said,  forming  the  resolution  as 
he  said  the  words. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  saying  nothing. 

"  Have  you  been  there  ?  " 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Eeally  now ! — fancy  that.     I  said — fancy  that !  " 

"I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  Urn — and  why  did  you  think  of  coming  over  here  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I — I  wanted  to  get  work  to  do." 

He  looked  at  her  sensuously. 

"  But  a  girl  like  you  ought  to  have  got  married." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  thinking  of  it  ?  "  he  suggested  jeal- 
ously. "  Is  that  why  you  didn't  want  me  to  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  thought  about  it,"  said  Nanno. 

"  What !  there  isn't  a  young  feller  after  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  not." 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her. 

"  Come,  then,  give  us  a  kiss,"  he  said  whiningly. 

Nanno  rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  way  you  don't  know  who  you're 
speakin'  to,  Mr.  Mossop !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  And  who  am  I  speakin'  to,  Miss  Troy  ?  " 

"  To  some  one  that  doesn't  give  kisses  to  anybody. 
Oh ! — is  it  fair  to  be  speakin'  like  this  to  me  because  I'm 
alone?  I  know  'twas  ye  got  me  to  be  attendant  at  May- 
nard's,  but  that's  no  call  for  ye  to  be  askin'  me  to  kiss  ye. 
I  don't  kiss  any  one.  Isn't  that  sufficient  for  ye  ?  " 

He  laughed. 

"You  don't  kiss  any  one — don't  you  forget  it.  D'you 
think  I  can  believe  that  when  I  look  at  your  mouth  ?  Why, 
I  can  see  kisses  on  it.  Great  Scott!  That's  what  it's 


TRAFFIC.  183 

made  for — your  mouth.  You  don't  kiss  any  one!  I'm 
not  going  to  forget  that."  He  stood  up.  "  Why,  girls 
have  kissed  me  what  have  a  good  deal  more  reason  to  think 
something  of  themselves  than  what  you  have.  One  of  the 
lady  customers,  what  I  went  to  see  once  on  business — 
she  kissed  me — nothing  else,  perhaps.  And  you — you  don't 
kiss  any  one !  Good  Lord !  " 

Nanno  crossed  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Mossop,"  she  said,  and  she  went 
into  her  bedroom,  leaving  him  to  his  own  discretion. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THIS  was  the  only  way  to  treat  Mr.  Mossop.  He  had  no 
respect  for  the  girls  who  had  once  kissed  him,  while  he 
treated  with  a  certain  amount  of  consideration  those  who 
had  not;  and  the  consideration  that  he  had  shown  to 
Nanno  from  that  day  had  made  things  perceptibly  easier. 
The  cessation  of  his  more  obvious  attentions,  however, 
did  not  for  a  moment  imply  that  he  had  been  disturbed 
from  his  purpose.  Xanno  had  risen  in  his  estimation. 
His  determination  to  win  her  was  probably  more  genuine 
and,  if  anything,  more  honorable.  Moreover,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  employ  the  same  methods  that  he  had  already 
adopted.  There  were  even  moments  when  he  thought  that 
it  might  not  be  so  unwise  if  he  made  her  his  wife.  But 
this  thought  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  encourage.  A 
sense  of  his  own  freedom  was  strong  within  him. 

And  so,  Nanno  had  not  been  troubled  any  further.  She 
knew  that  she  was  giving  every  satisfaction  to  her  employ- 
ers; the  fact  was  proved  by  the  celerity  with  which  they 
recognized  her  ability  to  wait  at  a  private  table.  Within 
four  months  of  the  time  when  she  had  first  entered,  they 
selected  her  to  accompany  one  of  the  most  experienced 
girls  when  a  customer  had  ordered  two  attendants  for  a 
dinner-party.  After  this  she  was  sent  by  herself;  and 
when  she  had  proved  her  efficiency,  customers  asking 
for  her  attendance  again,  her  wages  were  raised,  and  she 
felt  her  position  still  more  secure. 

All  this  was  bringing  her  to  a  happier  outlook  on  life. 
184 


TRAFFIC.  185 

Compared  with  what  she  had  suffered,  her  existence  was 
the  Nirvana  of  the  Prophet.  Her  evenings  were  mostly 
her  own.  When  they  were  not,  she  was  engaged  in  attend- 
ing at  a  dinner-party,  which,  to  her,  was  always  a  con- 
stant fund  of  interest.  There  were  times,  perhaps,  when 
she  felt  the  loneliness  of  her  position,  yet  she  never  ceased 
from  thanking  God  for  the  infinite  mercy  which  He  had 
shown  her.  Her  faith  and  the  wonderful  benefits  of  her 
church,  were  the  greatest  things  in  her  life.  She  had 
not  been  robbed  of  these.  Beyond  that,  she  was  comfort- 
able ;  she  really  wanted  for  nothing.  If  she  had  not  much 
companionship,  the  love  of  reading  had  entered  into  her 
interests.  The  only  thing  that  she  did  not  possess,  was 
the  love  of  any  one  or  the  love  for  any  one;  and  so  little 
had  she  seen  of  it  in  the  world,  that  she  did  not  think  of  it 
as  a  necessity.  In  time,  she  might  possibly  have  become 
one  of  those  women  who,  through  loneliness  in  the  early 
part  of  their  life,  lose  the  deeper  sense  of  loving,  and  be- 
come old  maids  from  choice  rather  than  from  necessity. 
That  deeper,  more  profound  side  of  her  nature — the  spirit 
of  passionate  love,  the  spirit  of  gentle  maternity — had 
never  been  awakened  in  her  by  Jamesy  Evan;  that  such 
should  have  been  the  case,  would  have  been  a  physical  im- 
possibility. Yet  even  Mr.  Mossop — that  coarse,  unen- 
lightened materialist — had  seen  its  presence  in  her,  had 
traced  it  to  her  lips,  had  been  attracted  by  it.  It  was 
there,  but  she  did  not  know  it ;  it  was  there,  but,  not  know- 
ing it,  she  did  not  feel  its  needs  or  demands.  The  desires 
of  love  are  mostly  created  in  a  woman;  they  do  not  fully 
develop  in  the  ordinary  course  of  evolution.  With  Xanno, 
there  had  been  no  one  to  create  them,  and  so,  she  was 
barely  conscious  of  the  fact  that  it  was  in  her  nature  to 
love  passionately,  fervently,  devoutly — to  cling  blindly, 


186  TRAFFIC. 

reverently,  to  the  man  who  should  so  inspire  her,  with  that 
same  faithfulness  that  she  devoted  to  her  religion. 

Nancy  Foley  occasionaly  came  to  see  her  in  her  little 
rooms  off  the  Fulham  Eoad.  They  talked  a  lot  together 
about  their  home;  but  Nanno,  quiet,  reticent,  sensitive, 
never  mentioned  what  had  driven  her  from  Eathmore.  It 
was  a  secret  that  she  kept  bravely  to  herself.  She  never 
heard  from  Bridget.  She  never  heard  from  any  one  in 
Eathmore,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  separated  herself 
from  them  forever;  had  made  a  life  of  her  own  and,  as 
far  as  it  was  possible,  she  had  determined  to  put  the  past 
irrevocably  behind  her. 

Miss  Shand,  the  violinist  of  Maynard's  band,  came  some- 
times to  visit  her,  generously  bringing  her  violin  and  play- 
ing for  Nanno  those  pieces  of  music  which  the  British 
public  cannot  listen  to  when  it  is  drinking  tea  at  the  same 
time.  To  her,  Nanno  had  told  nothing,  though  the  girl 
spoke  confidentially  of  the  conquests  that  she  had  made. 
There  was  very  little  reticence  about  Miss  Shand,  as  a  rule, 
but  with  Nanno,  she  felt  a  compulsion  of  reserve.  Nanno 
was  so  obviously  inexperienced,  she  thought,  and  many 
times  she  had  checked  herself  in  her  confidences,  lest  she 
should  shock  this  girl,  for  whom  she  had  conceived  a  genu- 
ine regard. 

In  consequence  of  this,  Nanno  thought  her  to  be  spot- 
less. She  could  not  then  have  understood  that,  however 
great  a  sin  may  be,  there  may  yet  be  a  predominance  of 
virtue  in  the  person  who  commits  it.  This  was  not  nar- 
row-mindedness, but  rather  a  lack  of  experience  of  life. 
Mr.  Mossop,  for  instance,  had  been  no  temptation  to  her. 
She  could  not  therefore  understand  that  he  would  ever 
be  a  temptation  to  any  girl.  This  was  only  her  ignorance 
of  the  world.  There  are  Mr.  Mossops  everywhere,  and 
they  find  their  prey. 


TRAFFIC.  187 

These  little  variations  composed  the  greater  part  of 
Nanno's  life  that  is  worth  recording,  when  Jerningham 
had  met  her  again,  serving  sherry  and  coffee  at  Mrs.  Hil- 
ton's dinner-part}*. 

She  had  gone  home  that  night  to  her  lodgings,  when 
her  work  was  finished,  feeling  dazed  and  mystified.  Did 
it  mean  anything  to  her?  she  found  herself  asking.  It 
seemed  unanswerable,  unless  a  sudden  heating  of  her  heart, 
a  flushing  of  blood  in  her  cheeks,  could  be  counted  as 
such.  But  she  tried  to  take  no  notice  of  these.  Jer- 
ningham had  for  so  long  been  a  dead  personality  to  her, 
that  the  sudden  meeting  of  him,  and  under  those  peculiar 
circumstances,  might  easily  account  for  her  agitation.  She 
chose,  in  fact,  to  account  for  it  in  that  way. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  her  efforts  to  minimize  the  ef- 
fect that  their  meeting  had  produced  in  her,  there  rose  in 
the  back  of  her  mind,  as  a  mist  rises  from  the  horizon  on  a 
July  day  at  sea,  all  those  comparisons  which  she  had  once 
been  forced  into  making,  when  Jerningham  was  in  Ireland 
and  she  was  fighting  against  the  impending  fate  of  Jamesy 
Eyan. 

For  a  long  time  into  that  night,  she  lay  awake,  en- 
deavoring to  thrust  the  circumstance  out  of  her  thoughts. 
Seeing  him,  as  she  had  done,  had  shown  her,  more  plainly 
than  she  had  ever  realized  in  Ireland,  the  immeasurable 
gulf  that  stretched  between  them.  What  interest  he  had 
evinced  in  her  there,  could  not  possibly  exist  in  these  new 
environments.  She  knew  that.  And  it  was  not  that  she 
hoped  against  hope  that  it  would — she  persisted  in  telling 
herself  that  this  was  true — but  that  an  insistent  voice 
of  Fate,  like  the  monotonous  note  in  a  shell,  forced  upon 
her  the  fear  that  here  lay  the  temptation  of  which  Father 
Mehan  had  spoken. 

At  last  she  fell  asleep,  and  in  the  morning,  with  the 


188  TRAFFIC. 

daylight,  the  fears  had  dwindled  into  a  far-distant  per- 
spective. Her  imaginations  had  thrived  like  parasites  upon 
the  night. 

The  routine  of  daily  work,  brought  her  back  again  to 
a  casual  contemplation  of  the  event,  until,  when  two  days 
had  gone  by,  she  had  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a  strange  co- 
incidence and  fit  it  into  a  common  groove. 

On  the  third  day  it  had  practically  passed  out  of  her 
mind.  She  went  aboiit  her  duties  as  usaul,  feeling  an 
awakened  interest  in  this  person  or  that,  who  came  in  to 
take  tea,  after  some  hours  of  strenuous  shopping  in  the 
various  departments  of  Maynard's  establishment.  The 
band  was  playing  Pierne's  serenade;  the  clatter  of  tea- 
cups was  incessant.  Attendants  kept  passing  to  and  fro 
with  their  trays.  It  was  half-past  four,  the  busiest  time 
of  the  afternoon,  and  Xanno  was  fully  occupied. 

"When,  at  length,  all  her  customers  were  served,  and 
she  had  a  moment's  respite  from  her  labors,  the  swing 
doors  at  the  end  of  the  room  opened,  and  Jerningham 
entered.  She  saw  him  at  once.  She  noticed  that,  for  a 
moment,  he  stood  there  as  though  looking  for  some  one. 
She  felt  the  blood  tingling  in  her  cheeks.  All  her  powers 
concentrated  themselves  in  an  endeavor  to  look  uncon- 
cerned. 

At  last  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  and  he  crossed  the 
room.  When  he  reached  her  side  he  raised  his  hat.  The 
other  attendants  stared  at  him  and  at  Nanno. 

"  Have  you  got  a  vacant  table  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  There's  one  over  there,"  she  said,  in  the  same  tone. 
"  Over  in  that  far  corner." 

He  thanked  her,  strode  across  the  room,  hung  his  hat 
upon  a  rack  on  the  wall,  and  sat  down  at  the  table. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

XAXXO'S  thoughts,  as  she  crossed  to  the  table  a  moment 
later,  to  wait  upon  Jerningham,  were  clamoring  for  reali- 
zation, as  the  hounds  clamor  round  the  huntsman  on  a 
frosty  day.  He  had  come  to  see  her — but  why? 

"  What  do  you  give  here  ?  "  he  asked,  when  she  ap- 
proached the  table. 

She  could  not  help  smiling. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  she  said.  "  We  can  give  you 
anything,  sir." 

"  Tea  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"And  bread  and  butter.  I  suppose?" 

She  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence  and  turned  away. 

"  Wait  a  moment,'*  he  said. 

She  came  back  again. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

It  seemed  as  though  she  did  not  understand. 

"  Can't  you  spare  a  minute  or  tv 

"  I  should  get  into  trouble."  she  said,  looking  steadily 
at  him  with  her  large  eyes.  "  We're  not  supposed " 

"  Of  course — I  can  understand  that.  Well — bring  me 
the  tea.  will  you  ?  " 

Jerningham's  eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved  away.  He 
was  trying  to  fill  the  gap  of  time  which  stretched  between 
that  moment  of  his  last  meetir  _  -r  in  Ireland.  He 

realized  the  attempt  to  be  futile.  Some  indefinable  ex- 
pression in  her  face,  led  him  to  feel  that  much  Lad  hap- 

189 


190  TRAFFIC. 

pened — there  his  imagination  stopped,  failing  to  take  the 
flight. 

When  she  returned  with  the  tea  and  the  bread  and 
butter,  he  watched  her  closely  as  she  laid  them  on  the 
table.  Her  cheeks  were  more  delicate  in  color  than  when 
he  had  seen  her  in  Ireland.  The  absence  of  outdoor  life 
had,  no  doubt,  been  the  cause  of  that.  But  in  many  other 
respects,  she  seemed  more  fragile — more  ethereal.  Her 
figure,  markedly  improved  by  the  carefully  made  cotton 
dress,  looked  more  formed,  more  symmetrical,  than  it  had 
done  in  the  close-fitting  bodice  and  uncouth  skirt  of  home- 
spun. Her  hair  was  more  glossy;  her  head  looked  to  be 
more  daintily  posed  upon  her  shoulders.  Refinement  had 
become  a  more  essential  part  of  her.  There  were  moments 
when  Jerningham  could  scarcely  believe  her  to  be  the  same 
girl. 

"  You've  changed  a  good  deal,  Nanno,"  he  said,  as  she 
set  the  things  in  front  of  him. 

"  D'you  think  so  ?  I  suppose  I  have  " — and  then,  in  a 
sudden  burst  of  impulse,  she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Jer- 
ningham, it  is  strange  to  see  you !  "  She  said  it  in  a 
low  voice,  but  he  felt  the  strain  that  lay  behind  it.  He 
almost  imagined  that  he  traced  a  note  of  pleasure  in  her 
words.  Home-sickness,  he  thought,  it  might  probably  be. 
He  was,  no  doubt,  a  link,  slender  enough  in  all  conscience 
yet,  nevertheless,  a  link  between  her  and  the  little  farm  up 
the  brambled  lane  that  she  had  left  behind.  She  was  glad 
to  see  him  for  that  reason;,  and  when  the  brambled  lane 
and  the  old  five-barred  gate  rose  up  in  the  focus  of  his 
mind's  eye,  he  felt  a  deep  and  earnest  sympathy  for  her. 
She  was  lonely — of  course  she  was.  For  that  matter,  so 
was  he  sometimes;  but  a  man  does  not  count  in  these  af- 
airs.  When  she  had  said  that — "  Oh,  Mr.  Jerningham,  it 
is  strange  to  see  you !  " — he  made  up  his  mind  that  he 


TRAFFIC.  191 

would  contribute  some  effort  to  save  the  solitary  condition 
of  her  life. 

"  Strange  ?  "  he  said.  "  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  How  long  have 
you  been  here  ?  " 

"A  little  over  six  months." 

"  As  long  as  that  ?  " 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"  And  do  you  live  here — on  the  premises  I  mean?  " 

"  I  do  not" 

"  Where  do  you  live,  then  ?  " 

She  told  him  at  once,  giving  the  number  and  the  name 
of  the  street  without  any  hesitation.  To  him,  who  knew 
nothing  of  Mr.  Mossop,  and  to  her,  who  was  unconscious  of 
her  readiness  to  answer  his  question,  this  fact  implied 
nothing;  yet  it  was,  nevertheless,  indicative  of  the  confi- 
dence which  she  placed  in  him.  As  he  had  treated  her  in 
Ireland  so,  she  knew  instinctively,  he  would  treat  her 
here.  It  would  be,  all  through,  his  way  of  treating  wo- 
men, as  also  would  those  that  Mr.  Mossop  had  adopted 
remain  his. 

"  And  what  do  you  do  with  yourself  ? "  Jerningham 
asked,  with  growing  interest. 

"  I  can't  wait  now,"  she  replied.  She  saw  the  cold  eye 
of  the  superintendent  watching  her  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room,  and  knew  that  any  slight  indiscretion  on  her 
part  would  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Mossop.  "  I  must  not 
talk  any  longer — I'll  come  back  again."  Then  she  moved 
away  to  make  up  a  bill  at  another  table. 

Jerningham  dallied  over  his  tea.  It  was  a  meal  of 
which  he  seldom  partook,  yet,  for  the  sake  of  being  able 
to  say  a  few  more  words  to  Xanno,  he  ordered  another  sup- 
ply of  bread  and  butter,  making  desperate  pretense  to  eat 
it. 

There  was  something  in  the  existence  of  this  girl  in 


192  TEAFFH '. 

London  that  seemed  to  echo  with  his  own.  He  drew 
thumb-nail  sketches  of  her  in  his  mind's  eye,  little  im- 
pressionist pictures  of  her  in  the  evening,  sitting  in  her 
room  by  herself.  That  was  a  state  of  affairs  that  fre- 
quently existed  with  him.  He  felt  sorry  for  her,  as  some- 
times, when  he  was  in  the  mood,  he  felt  sorry  for  himself. 
Why,  particularly,  he  should  feel  sorry  for  Nanno,  he 
could  not  explain.  There  were  hundreds  of  other  girls 
in.  similar  positions  in  life,  hundreds  of  other  girls 
who  did  their  nine  hours'  wrork  in  the  day,  and  then  folded 
cold  and  untouched  hands  before  them  as  the  evening  drew 
in.  He  was  not  drawn  out  of  his  way  to  feel  sympathy 
for  them.  With  Nanno,  evidently,  it  was  different.  He 
was  at  least  candid  with  himself,  and  admitted  that  she 
was  attractive  to  him  because  she  was  Irish — because  he 
had  known  her  first  in  Ireland — had  seen  her  under  the 
conditions  with  which  she  was  brought  up.  All  these 
other  girls  were  nonentities.  He  knew  nothing  about 
them.  His  lack  of  interest  in  them  compelled  him  to 
imagine  nothing.  When  he  thought  of  Nanno,  he  imag- 
ined a  host  of  things.  He  saw  her  in  the  cornfield ;  he 
pictured  her  driving  home  the  cows.  She  stood  out  strik- 
ingly in  his  mind  at  the  holy  well,  making  her  rounds 
and  counting  her  beads.  What  girl  was  there  in  London, 
drudging  in  a  tea-shop,  who  had  such  faith  in  the  back 
of  her  heart  as  Nanno?  Had  any  of  them  any  faith  at 
all? 

He  was  perfectly  aware  why  Xanno  was  interesting  to 
him.  It  had  been  with  her,  as  though  he  had  watched  her 
course  from  infancy,  yet  no  one,  it  must  be  admitted, 
knew  so  little  about  her  as  Jerningham ;  and  that  again, 
when  once  he  realized  it,  goaded  him  to  know  more.  He 
did  not  study  the  lives  and  developments  of  people  as 
a  rule;  with  Nanno,  he  fancied  he  had  begun  to  do  so. 


TRAFFIC.  193 

A.s  lie  waited  for  her  to  come  and  make  up  his  account, 
he  determined  in  his  mind  to  see  more  of  her,  to  under- 
stand better  the  type  of  life  that  she  had  led  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  make  it  easier  for  her. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  beckoning,  and  he  asked  her 
for  his  bill,  watching  her  face  as  she  calculated  with 
the  figures. 

"  Xanno,"  he  said,  as  she  laid  the  slip  of  paper  in 
front  of  him,  "I'm  not  going  to  be  done  out  of  my  talk 
with  you." 

She  smiled  brightly.  It  i?  with  this  type  of  assertion 
of  a  man's  authority  and  determination  that  a  woman 
is  won.  The  mailed  fist  or  the  tender  ballade  may  find 
their  answer  in  the  obedient  eyes  and  the  soulful  sigh; 
but  it  is  the  gentle  sweeping  up  into  the  saddle-bow  and 
the  strong  arm  gripping  the  yielding  waist  that  carries  off 
more  women  in  a  whirlwind  towards  that  horizon  where 
the  sun  can  never  set. 

"  I  came  here,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "  with  the  in- 
tention of  having  a  talk.  Mrs.  Hilton  told  me  where  you 
came  from." 

"  You  asked  her  ?  "     Xanno's  eyes  opened. 

"  Of  course  I  did." 

"And  she  told  you?" 

"Of  course  she  did.  Now,  look  here — to-morrow's 
Saturday.  I  suppose  you've  got  a  half  day  off?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

''  Well,  then — do  you  know  your  way  down  to  the  Tem- 
ple?" 

She  said  she  did  not.  She  had  never,  in  fact,  heard 
of  it  before.  He  told  her  then  what  'bus  to  take  that 
would  bring  her  in  the  direction,  advising  her  after  that 
to  ask  her  way  to  Plowden  Buildings. 

"  Come  down  at  about  half -past  three/'  he  concluded, 
13 


194  TRAFFIC. 

"  and  we'll  go  back  over  old  times.  Who'd  ever  think  it 
was  as  much  as  two  years  ago !  " 

For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"I  don't  think  it's  right  that  I  should/'  she  said  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"  Eight?  "  He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  Why 
shouldn't  you?  Do  you  remember  driving  in  on  the  car 
with  me  to  Anesk — that  evening  that  I  was  going  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  remember,"  she  replied. 

"Well?" 

The  consideration  of  its  not  being  absolutely  the  correct 
form  of  etiquette  had  not  occurred  to  him ;  but  it  was  by 
no  means  a  point  of  etiquette  that  rose  up  before  her. 
She  trusted  him — implicitly.  There  was,  in  fact,  no  other 
man  she  had  ever  met  in  whom  she  could  place  so  much 
confidence.  But  that  was  not  in  question.  What  right 
had  she  to  go  to  any  man's  rooms  ?  Father  Mehan's  warn- 
ing had  left  an  impression  in  the  recesses  of  her  mind 
which  she  could  not  obliterate. 

"  Men  come  into  women's  lives,  and  women  into  men's," 
he  had  said,  or  to  that  effect ;  "  and  some  were  made,  and 
some  were  spoiled." 

Jerningham  could  not  make  her  life.  That,  she  knew 
only  too  well,  was  made  already.  But  why  should  he 
spoil  it?  Was  it  always  to  be  that  she  should  have  no 
companionship  ?  Was  she,  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  to  make 
for  loneliness  and  shun  friendship,  because  she  was  joined 
to  a  man  whose  morality  was  a  wreck  and  whose  affec- 
tion for  her  did  not  exist?  She  did  not  realize  all  that 
the  answering  of  this  question  meant.  The  flood  comes 
in  the  tide  of  affairs  moral  and  beneficial,  and  it  is  a 
mighty  small-looking  stream  as  men  and  women  hesitate 
to  look  at  it.  They  stand  on  the  brink  and  ask  themselves 
just  the  same  sort  of  questions  as  Nanno  was  then  asking 


TRAFFIC.  195 

herself.  Is  it  the  time  to  launch  or  to  refrain  from  launch- 
ing? And  the  stream  hums  merrily  by.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  waters  will  be  placid  and  smooth  and  un- 
eventful again.  The  opportunity  for  action  or  for  an- 
swering will  be  gone.  They  wonder  if  that  playful  seeth- 
ing on  the  surface  of  the  stream  can  really  be  the  signs 
of  a  flood ;  but  it  is  not  at  one's  feet  that  the  current  runs 
strongest.  Farther  down  the  stream  it  is  racing  in  a 
mad  frenzy.  There  are  whirlpools,  cataracts,  torrents, 
farther  down;  but,  standing  there,  it  is  hard  to  see  the 
foam  they  make  or  hear  their  voices  that  roar.  And  so, 
perhaps,  the  affairs  are  taken  at  the  flood,  or  they  are 
discarded ;  but  it  is  only  when  the  soul  that  takes  them  has 
been  carried  far  down  upon  the  water,  that  it  realizes 
whether  the  tide  be  for  good  or  evil. 

This  is  the  eternal  question  with  mankind;  this  was 
the  question  then  with  Xanno.  Was  the  tide  of  seeming 
happiness  that  was  setting  in  upon  the  loneliness  of  her 
affairs,  one  for  good  or  for  evil  ? 

"  Well  ?  "  Jerningham  repeated,  his  voice  breaking  in 
on  the  wondering  of  her  thoughts.  "  How  about  that 
evening?  Look  here,  you're  not  going  to  be  a  foolish  girl 
and  let  yourself  be  worried  by  conventionalities?  Do 
you  know  many  people  ?  Have  you  got  many  friends  here 
in  London  ?  " 

She  framed  a  wistful  negation  with  her  lips. 

"  Well,  then,  you  come  down  to  Plowden  Buildings  to- 
morrow afternoon,  and  I'll  give  you  a  far  better  tea  than 
you've  just  given  me.  What  sort  of  cake  do  you  like?" 

She  could  not  but  laugh — he  made  so  light  of  the 
whole  thing. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  seeing  her  amusement — "I  take  that 
laugh  as  an  answer — you'll  come." 


CHAPTEE  VII. 


EXCEPT  those  parts  which  have  latterly  been  rebuilt, 
the  courts  of  the  Middle  Temple  are  singularly  similar 
in  appearance.  All  have  their  wooden  flights  of  stairs 
that  creak  and  groan  as  you  mount  them  to  your  desti- 
nation. In  each  building  there  is  that  atmosphere  of 
musty  recollections,  that  subtle  sensation  of  bygone  days. 
The  caged  gas-jet  that  nickers  dimly  and  casts  a  cheerless 
light  on  each  landing,  is  in  keeping  with  everything — 
most  of  all  with  the  unpromising  milk  cans  that  stand  on 
the  window-sill  outside  each  door. 

The  Benchers  are  not  concerned  with  the  approach  to 
your  residential  quarters.  Your  name  is  painted  in  black 
letters  on  the  jamb  of  the  main  entrance;  painted  again 
on  the  lintel  of  your  own  door.  In  almost  every  case  it 
is  a  double  door,  the  outside  being  of  thick,  stout  oak, 
covered  with  a  layer  of  pale  green  paint,  the  inner  of  the 
same  timber,  bearing  a  knocker  of  a  metal  and  antiquity 
which  your  pocket  happens  to  afford.  Or,  perhaps,  there 
is  no  knocker  at  all. 

Nearly  all  the  oak  in  the  Temple — the  paneling  of  the 
rooms,  the  lintels  of  the  doors  and  the  doors  themselves — 
is  covered  with  that  same  green  paint.  When  you  think 
of  it  as  oak,  you  are  apt  to  call  it  vandalism — unless  you 
happen  to  be  an  admirer  of  Louis  XV,  when  the  fate  of 
antique  oak  does  not  worry  you.  But  in  time  you  get 
accustomed  to  it;  grow,  in  fact,  to  think  of  it  as  part  of 

196 


TRAFFIC.  107 

the  whole  scheme.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  black  let- 
ters of  your  name  show  up  well  on  that  green  paint. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  interiors  of  the  buildings  them- 
selves which  make  the  atmosphere  that  surrounds  the 
Temple.  It  is  to  be  felt  outside  in  the  courts  as  well. 
That  narrow  passage — Middle  Temple  Lane — with  its 
numerous  bypaths  and  alleys,  its  houses  on  either  side 
that  almost  reach  over  and  touch  each  other;  those  courts 
into  which  the  alleys  lead — Pump  Court,  Fig  Tree  Court 
— paved  with  the  slabs  of  grave-like  stones  that  seem  to 
be  memorial  to  the  steps  that  have  fallen  upon  them  in 
the  years  of  long  ago — all  these  combine  to  breathe  a 
silent  atmosphere  of  the  lives  of  men  who  have  written 
their  names  in  water,  ink,  or  their  own  heart's  blood,  and 
gone  their  way  into  the  great  unknown. 

There  are  the  very  graves,  too,  of  some  of  those  who 
peopled  the  Temple  in  that  Past  which  can  never  fail 
to  be  romantic.  Most  of  them  who  are  known  to  us  still, 
have  written  their  names  in  ink  or  their  own  heart's  blood, 
perhaps — if  such  writing  could  ever  be  traced— and  the 
men  who  live  in  their  rooms  to-day  yet  strive  to  keep  in 
touch  with  them.  They  collect  the  earlier  editions  of  their 
books  and  strain  their  sight  over  the  musty,  printed  char- 
acters. The  middle  Temple  breeds  a  love  of  books — old 
books — first  editions.  It  will  not  satisfy  a  man  in  Plow- 
den  Buildings  or  Essex  Court  to  possess  those  new  illus- 
trated copies  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield."  He  must 
have  his  dirty  "  dumpy  twelves  "  with  the  old-fashioned 
s's  and  faded  brown  pages  that  were  once  white,  once 
handled,  once  caressed,  perhaps,  by  the  author  himself. 

The  middle  Temple  will  never  lose  that  odor  of  the  dim 
and  half-forgotten  past.  It  clings  about  its  buildings  as 
the  aromatic  perfume  clings  about  the  pot  of  scented 
rose-leaves  that  defy  all  dust  and  dare  decay.  The  sim- 


198  TRAFFIC. 

pie  row  of  trees  in  Essex  Court,  they  have  looked  on  at 
life  in  the  Temple  for  some  few  years,  but  they  are  quite 
silent  about  it,  whispering  only  amongst  themselves  in  win- 
ter; sighing,  perhaps,  in  summer.  And  Fig  Tree  Court 
and  Pump  Court — it  matters  little  that  the  pump  has  been 
appropriated  for  the  use  of  the  Metropolitan  Fire  Brigade 
and  that  the  fig  tree  no  longer  has  existence — it  is  quite 
sufficient  that  they  still  bear  their  names  to  suggest  the 
history  that  surrounds  them. 

And  it  is  about  the  interiors,  no  less  than  in  the  court- 
yards themselves,  that  the  sense  of  mystery  and  romance 
still  clings  to  this  part  of  old  London.  The  rooms  are 
paneled  with  that  painted  woodwork,  sometimes  to  the 
edge  of  their  low  ceilings.  They  almost  compel  the  choice 
of  furniture  that  is  mostly  to  be  found  in  them — old  oak 
dressers,  Queen  Anne  bureaus,  and  brass  ornaments.  It 
is  a  strange  fact  that  nearly  all  residents  of  the  Temple — 
journalists,  barristers,  all  classes,  conditions,  and  opposites 
of  mankind — invariably — unconsciously,  it  sometimes 
seems — submit  to  the  same  scheme  of  furnishing  their 
quarters.  Old  prints  adorn  the  walls ;  old  books  lie  on  the 
bookshelves.  It  would  appear  to  be  an  unwritten  senti- 
ment that  you  may  not  modernize  or  denationalize  the 
Temple  with  the  furniture  that  you  fill  in  your  rooms. 
To  do  so  would  be  ignorant,  bad  taste — sacrilege. 

Some  men,  perhaps,  you  will  find  there — unprepossess- 
ing-looking men,  with  untutored  voices  and  features  that 
betray  no  inner  refinement  of  intellect — who  can  set  you 
right  when  you  misquote  the  English  classics  of  the  last 
four  centuries.  They  can  tell  you  the  genuine  from  the 
false  in  prints,  pewter,  brass,  and  what-not.  The  spell  of 
the  Temple  is  cast  over  them.  In  their  own  chambers  you 
are  compelled  to  submit  yourself  beneath  them. 

You  have  only  to  turn  aside  from  Fleet  Street  and  pass 


TRAFFIC.  199 

down  Middle  Temple  Lane,  to  feel  in  one  moment,  in  the 
stillness  that  swiftly  wraps  you  round,  the  subtle  yet  al- 
most pregnant  existence  of  your  contact  with  the  Past. 
The  porter  who  sits  in  his  little  room  under  the  archway, 
he  is  merely  an  ordinary  cockney  who,  no  doubt,  takes  his 
racing  tips  from  the  evening  papers;  but  you  cannot  con- 
nect him  with  anything  so  cheaply  modern  or  mundane. 
The  barristers  and  their  clerks,  the  law  students  and  their 
women,  they  are  all  invested  with  that  selfsame  spell. 
They  have  chambers  in  the  Temple — go  and  see  them;  go 
and  talk  to  them  in  their  surroundings,  and  you  will  find 
that  in  some  unaccountable  way  they  are  different  from  the 
rest. 

There  is  a  general  superstition  that  only  barristers  and 
law  students  occupy  rooms  in  the  Temple.  But  this  is  not 
the  case.  The  Temple  contains  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men  who  have  been  admitted  when  that  noble  body  of 
Benchers  found  themselves  short  of  rents;  and,  once  hav- 
ing entered,  they  have  quietly  remained.  That  only 
Benchers  may  drive  into  the  Temple  with  a  lady  after  a 
certain  hour  at  night  is  a  law  that  is  inviolable ;  but  that 
barristers  should  be  the  only  inhabitants  of  chambers — 
that  may  be  broken  by  necessity. 

You  will  see  the  names  on  many  lintels  of  men  in  all 
phases  and  fortunes  of  life  and,  were  you  to  look  upon  the 
lintel  of  one  of  the  doors  in  Plowden  Buildings — the 
caged  gas-jet  illumines  the  letters,  otherwise  at  night  they 
would  be  undecipherable — you  would  find  the  name  writ- 
ten, P.  H.  Jerningham. 

That  is  all.  Xothing  to  describe  who  P.  H.  Jerning- 
ham is ;  yet,  when  once  she  had  found  it  on  that  next  Sat- 
urday afternoon,  Xanno  was  satisfied  with  the  brevity  of 
its  sign. 

The  outer  door  was  open,  the  inner  closed.     She  stood 


200  TRAFFIC. 

hesitatingly  for  a  moment,  her  hand  grasping  the  brass 
knocker,  which  represented  a  nude  lady  of  sorts  caressing 
her  modesty.  Jerningham  had  found  it  in  a  dirty  furni- 
ture-shop in  the  Waterloo  Bridge  Road. 

Even  then,  at  that  moment,  doubts  entered  her  mind. 
She  had  not  struck  the  knocker.  He  did  not  know  she  was 
there.  The  indescribable  prescience  that  she  had  alwaj^s 
possessed  in  the  matter  of  her  own  destiny,  was  haunting 
her  with  the  monotonous  persistence  of  a  tolling  bell.  It 
was  not  too  late  to  turn  back.  On  the  other  hand,  what 
was  it  really  that  she  feared?  This  man  whom  she  was 
going  to  see,  what  interest  had  he  in  her  beyond  that  curi- 
osity which  one  human  being  in  one  sphere  of  life  feels 
for  another  ?  She  herself  was  curious  to  see  the  conditions 
with  which  he  lived.  Anticipation  burned  in  her  to  know 
what  it  was  like  on  the  other  side  of  that  door.  But  was  it 
curiosity  alone  that  had  brought  her  there? 

She  thought  over  what  she  would  do  if  she  turned  back 
then.  She  would  get  on  to  a  'bus  in  Fleet  Street.  The 
'bus  would  be  cold — cheerless — uncomfortable.  She  would 
return  home,  and  there  would  be  no  fire  in  the  sitting- 
room,  unless  she  paid  for  it.  There  would  be  no  one  there 
to  talk  to  her;  no  one  to  welcome  her  when  she  returned. 
On  the  other  hand,  beyond  that  door  was  everything  that 
would  make  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  pass  more  enjoyably 
than  any  day  which  she  had  yet  spent  in  London. 

Her  hand  raised  the  knocker.  She  paused.  If  she  went 
to  see  Mr.  Jerningham  now,  might  it  not  mean  her  coming 
to  see  him  again?  Once  more  she  let  the  knocker  down 
gently,  making  no  noise.  And  all  these  thoughts  chased 
each  other  through  her  mind,  as  shadows  of  a  passing 
show  are  swept  across  a  screen.  Three  minutes  had 
scarcely  passed  since,  with  an  eager  hand,  she  had  first 


TRAFFIC.  201 

grasped  the  little  brass  figure;  yet  in  that  time  she  had 
been  warring  against  the  dictates  of  her  own  destiny. 

The  fight  was  nearly  over.  Her  mind  was  coming  slowly 
to  the  decision  that  it  would  be  unwise;  but  the  entire 
foundation  of  that  decision  was  one  that  she  would  not  ex- 
press, even  with  her  most  innermost  thoughts.  After  all, 
what  right  had  she  to  admit  that  Jerningham,  as  a  man, 
had  appealed  to  her  from  the  first  time  that  she  had  met 
him?  She  believed  herself  to  be  absolutely  nothing — a 
cipher  in  the  consideration  of  his  affairs.  His  social  stand- 
ing was  immeasurably  above  hers — his  intellect,  his  edu- 
cation, his  breeding,  they  were  all  incomparable  with  those 
qualifications  which  she  knew  to  be  her  own.  If  she  did 
admit  in  vague  hypothesis  that,  as  a  man,  he  might  be  her 
ideal,  how  would  that  affect  matters  ?  How  would  it  alter 
the  scale  one  way  or  another?  She  would  never  be  any- 
thing more  than  a  farmer's  daughter,  an  attendant  in  a 
restaurant,  to  him.  But  she  did  not  admit  it.  She  would 
not  admit  it.  For  another  moment  she  stood  there,  her 
eyes  closed,  refusing  to  admit  it. 

Then  decision  came  to  her.  She  turned  slowly  away.  It 
was  a  cruel  renunciation.  Her  heart  was  crying  in  bitter- 
ness at  the  hardness  of  the  compulsion.  She  knew  then 
that  life  had  to  be  fought  by  inches,  not  lived  in  oblivion 
through  unlimited  space  and  time. 

Her  foot  was  on  the  first  wooden  step  that  led  down  to 
the  main  entrance;  her  head  was  still  half  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  open  outer  door,  when  she  heard  footsteps 
on  the  other  side  and,  swiftly  turning,  she  tried  to  hurry 
down  the  remaining  steps,  making  as  little  noise  as  pos- 
sible. 

It  was  too  late.  Jerningham  had  come  out  on  to  the 
landing.  He  had  heard  her  departing  footsteps,  and  was 
looking  over  the  handrail  from  above. 


202  TRAFFIC. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  "  he  called  out. 

She  stopped.  She  had  tried  to  get  away — honestly  tried 
— but  her  heart  was  beating  with  delight  that  she  had  been 
discovered. 

"I'm  just  afther  thinkin'  that  it  would  be  better  if  I 
didn't  come/'  she  replied,  looking  up. 

He  smiled  down  at  her. 

"  Do  you  imagine  I'm  going  to  allow  that  ?  "  he  asked, 
and  he  began  to  descend  the  stairs.  "  When  I've  bought 
the  most  wonderful  thing  in  cakes  you've  ever  seen  and 
have  been  sitting  watching  a  kettle  that  refuses  to  boil 
until  it  has  mighty  good  reason  to  ?  "  He  reached  her  side 
and  took  her  arm  with  gentle  authority. 

"Be  so  good,"  he  said,  "as  to  mount  these  stairs  in 
front  of  me,"  and,  setting  her  before  him,  he  followed  her 
up  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IT  was  perfectly  true  that  Jerningham  had  been  sitting 
over  the  fire  watching  the  kettle,  but  he  had  also  been  won- 
dering about  jSTanno.  He  speculated  with  himself  how  she 
would  be  dressed.  Sometimes,  when  in  his  mind's  eye  he 
saw  the  impression  of  a  girl  gaudily  arrayed,  having  put 
on  her  best  to  honor  him  and  the  occasion,  he  shuddered. 
In  her  ignorance,  he  fancied  that  she  might  dress  like  that, 
and  the  possibilities  of  her  being  seen  by  men  on  the  other 
landings  made  him  wonder  whether  he  had  been  wise  in 
asking  her  there.  Of  course  it  would  not  be  her  fault;  he 
could  not  for  a  moment  blame  her  for  it.  But  then,  when 
he  had  seen  her,  his  surprise  had  been  far  greater  than  his 
relief. 

His  sole  impression  was  that  she  was  quietly  dressed, 
neatly  dressed.  Of  what  material  her  frock  was  made,  he 
could  not  possibly  have  said;  whether  it  was  black  or 
whether  it  was  dark  blue,  he  would  have  been  equally  in 
doubt.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  more  than  satisfied ;  in 
fact,  so  far  as  such  things  did  appeal  to  him,  he  was 
pleased. 

That  refinement  which  had  always  found  evidence  in 
her  face  had,  since  she  had  come  to  London,  shown  itself 
in  various  other  little  ways.  Once  it  had  found  oppor- 
tunity, the  strain  of  her  father  was  obliterating  the  coarser 
instincts  that  she  inherited  from  her  mother.  Bridget  had 
always  thought  that  in  finer  suroundings  her  daughter 

203 


204  TRAFFIC. 

would  develop  into  a  fine  woman.  Had  she  seen  her  then, 
she  would  have  realized  the  truth  of  her  expectations. 

For  some  little  time  after  she  had  seated  herself  in  the 
one  comfortable  armchair  that  he  placed  for  her,  Jerning- 
ham  could  only  sit  and  watch  Xanno's  face  in  admiring 
satisfaction.  There  was  no  lady  at  that  moment  he  could 
have  named — no  matter  what  social  position  she  might 
have  held — whom  he  would  have  preferred  in  Xanno's 
place.  He  felt  perfectly  at  his  ease  with  her.  There  was 
just  a  touch  of  that  spirit  of  the  eventful  which  added  zest 
to  the  whole  thing ;  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his 
eyes  still  on  her,  he  took  a  deep  breath  with  involuntary 
content. 

"  Xow  we're  going  to  have  a  tea,"  he  said,  "  that'll 
knock  that  one  you  gave  me  into  a  cocked  hat." 

She  could  not  prevent  herself  from  laughing.  She  knew 
that,  though  she  had  been  thwarted  in  her  design,  she  was 
intensely  happy. 

"  Won't  you  take  off  your  hat  ?  "  he  went  on.  "  You'll 
be  more  comfortable." 

"  I'd  rather  not,  if  ye  don't  mind,"  she  said. 

He  closed  his  eyes  to  the  sound  of  gentle  obedience  In. 
her  voice.  If  he  didn't  mind !  What  other  woman  would 
have  dreamed  of  adding  that? 

"Very  well,  then — come  along — we're  going  to  make 
some  toast."  He  crossed  to  the  gate-legged  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room  and  commenced  cutting  slices  from  a 
loaf  of  bread.  She  watched  all  his  actions  with  a  smile  on 
her  face. 

"  Shure,  you're  cutting  it  very  thick !  "  she  exclaimed  at 
last,  when  she  saw  the  tremendous  slices  that  fell  before 
the  knife. 

"  And  ought  it  to  be  thinner  ?  "    He  looked  round. 

She  crossed  to  the  table,  holding  out  her  hand  for  the 


TRAFFIC.  205 

knife.  He  gave  it  to  her  and,  with  skilful  manipulation, 
she  cut  three  more  pieces  where  he  would  have  cut  one. 

"  That's  neat  enough,"  he  said. 

"  I  often  make  toast  for  myself  at  home,"  she  explained. 

"  At  home  ?    Where  ?    In  Ireland  ?  " 

«  Xo— the  Fulham  Road." 

"  So  you  call  that  home  now — eh  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

The  moment  that  Ireland  had  been  mentioned,  her  voice 
had  lost  the  lightness  of  its  tone.  The  word  alone  would 
have  brought  back  the  thought  of  all  her  sufferings;  and 
then,  also,  she  was  wondering  whether  he  knew.  As  soon 
as  an  opportunity  occurred,  she  asked  him  whether  he  had 
been  back  again  since  to  Eathmore. 

"  If  I  had,"  he  replied,  "  do  you  think  I  wouldn't  have 
come  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  And  you  haven't  heard  anything  from  Eathmore 
since  ?  " 

"  Xot  a  word." 

Without  being  able  to  control  it,  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped 
from  her.  Then  he  knew  nothing  about  her.  It  had 
vaguely  entered  her  mind  that  if  he  were  told  that  she^had 
left  her  husband,  he  would  refuse  to  speak  to  her  again 
and,  until  that  moment,  she  had  never  been  so  happy  be- 
fore in  her  life.  Can  it  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  her 
sigh  was  of  relief  ? 

"  Is  it  the  way  you  mean  to  toast  it  on  the  knife  ?  "  she 
asked,  leaving  the  subject  of  Ireland  as  soon  as  she  pos- 
sibly could,  "  or  have  you  got  a  proper  fork  ?  " 

He  had  a  proper  fork.  He  fetched  it  for  her  and  stood 
by  while  she  secured  a  piece  of  bread  upon  the  prongs. 
Then  she  carried  it  to  the  fire,  kneeling  down  before  the 
fender.  Still  he  watched  her.  The  back  of  her  neck  was 
like  a  child's.  For  a  moment  his  eyes  seemed  hypnotized  to 


206  TRAFFIC. 

it.    At  last  he  came  back  to  earth  and  Plowden  Buildings. 

"  Look  here,"  he  exclaimed,  striding  forward,  "  give  me 
the  fork — you'll  burn  your  face." 

She  looked  up.    "  I  don't  mind  the  fire,"  she  said. 

"  P'r'aps  not — and  neither  do  I.  Come  along,  give  me 
the  fork." 

He  took  it  from  her  as  she  held  it  up,  and  continued 
with  the  toasting  himself,  his  eyes  lost  in  a  contemplation 
of  the  fire,  while  she  filled  the  teapot. 

"  You're  very  quiet  suddenly,"  she  said,  when,  after 
taking  up  the  third  piece  of  bread  to  toast,  he  still  main- 
tained silence. 

He  looked  round  and  smiled. 

"  Sorry — don't  think  I  was  forgetting  about  you.  I 
wasn't.  When  you've  lived  by  yourself  for  a  time,  you'll 
find  you'll  get  into  it,  too.  Just  a  trick,  habit — that's  all." 

"  Do  you  feel  lonely  sometimes,  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  frowned  at  the  fire. 

"  Only  when  any  one  comes  up  here — feel  a  bit  lonely 
then.  You  see,  I  know  they've  got  to  go  some  time  or 
other,  and  then  I  shall  be  alone.  When  I  am  by  myself, 
then  there's  no  one  to  go,  so  that  I  can't  be  any  worse  off. 
Quite  silly,  of  course." 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  go  now?  " 

Jerningham  stood  up  quickly  from  the  fire. 

"  You  mustn't  misunderstand  me  like  that,"  he  said, 
"  I'm  enjoying  myself  immensely.  Is  the  tea  ready?  " 

She  nodded  her  head. 

He  drew  the  one  arm-chair  up  close  to  the  fire  for  her 
and  waited  until  she  had  seated  herself. 

"  Now  for  the  best  cup  of  tea,"  he  began. 

She  interrupted  quaintly,  with  a  smile.  "Is  your  tea 
the  best?" 

"  Always,"  he  said ;  then  they  laughed. 


TRAFFIC.  207 

There  is  a  type  of  pleasure,  of  happiness,  in  this  world 
that  is  beyond  comprehension.  It  will  not  admit  of  ex- 
tremes, though  it  be  pregnant  with  possibilities.  No  re- 
laxation follows  after  it;  it  is  simple  to  a  degree.  Such  a 
type  is  that  when  the  natures  of  a  man  and  a  woman  first 
find  mutual  interest  in  each  other's  society.  At  that 
period  and  so  long  as  it  lasts,  before  avowals  are  made  or 
passions  declared,  when  there  are  no  illusions  to  be  spoiled 
or  hopes  to  be  crushed,  they  too,  are  experiencing  a  state 
of  almost  perfect  happiness.  In  subtle  hiding  behind  it 
all,  as  the  sense  of  danger  that  lurks  in  the  truest  forms 
of  sport,  there  lies  the  knowledge  that  one  day  the  mo- 
ment will  come  when  the  train  will  be  burned  out,  the 
magazine  of  powder  reached,  and  the  entire  condition  of 
things  be  altered.  It  is  this  tremble  of  anticipation — this 
tentative  playing  with  a  quivering  fire — that  adds  a  zest, 
or  rather  is  the  gist  of  pleasure  itself  in  this  negative  state 
of  happiness.  Negative  it  must  be,  for  when  the  woman 
has  looks  and  the  man  the  blood  of  youth,  a  burning  there 
will  follow,  without  doubt.  In  the  whole  range  of  chem- 
ical science  there  are  no  two  substances,  such  as  these,  so 
highly  inflammable,  so  bound  when  brought  in  contact  to 
coalesce. 

In  such  a  state  of  happy  contentment  Jerningham 
found  himself  that  afternoon.  At  the  time,  he  did  not 
wish  it  to  go  further.  It  did  not  enter  into  his  considera- 
tion that  Nanno  was  a  woman  to  be  desired.  He  did  not 
see  that  a  hundred  men  in  his  place — rushing  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  in  her  consent  of  coming  to  their  rooms, 
she  had  tacitly  consented  to  other  things — would  find  the 
urgent  temptation  of  pressing  their  advantage,  even  if 
they  did  not  give  way  to  it.  None  of  these  things  oc- 
curred to  him.  He  merely  found  her  a  companion — dif- 
ferent, perhaps,  in  her  companionship  from  men  but, 


208  TRAFFIC. 

nevertheless,  a  companion  with  whom  the  hours  passed 
like  minutes. 

The  men  who  came  up  to  his  rooms  helped  themselves 
to  what  he  had.  JSTanno  had  to  be  helped,  to  be  waited 
on.  The  whole  experience  took  him  out  of  himself — a 
circumstances  for  which  any  one  in  this  world  may  be 
thankful. 

The  fact  that  she  was  a  waitress  in  a  restaurant  did  not 
touch  him.  Even  when  she  was  telling  him  of  her  ex- 
periences, he  scarcely  thought  of  her  as  that. 

Her  ignorance  of  life  in  London  he  found  fascinating. 
She  had  never  heard  of  the  Stock  Exchange;  and  then, 
what  was  monotonous  routine  to  him,  became  suddnly 
interesting  as  he  explained  to  her  the  wheels  that  worked 
within  wheels,  the  struggle  that  was  forever  seething  in 
the  heart  of  the  City. 

Whenever  she  did  not  understand,  she  asked  curious, 
childish  questions  that  sometimes  made  him  laugh,  some- 
times compelled  him  to  lean  back  in  his  chair  and  watch 
her  face  with  wonder. 

But,  beside  all  this,  she  had  uncommon,  unexpected 
views  of  life.  Occasionally  in  Ireland,  she  had  given  them 
expression.  He  remembered  that  he  had  once  remarked 
upon  them  to  her.  Now,  because,  no  doubt,  of  all  she  had 
suffered,  they  were  more  frequent.  At  unlooked-for  mo- 
ments she  expressed  thoughts  that  amazed  him;  the  ex- 
pression of  them  was  simple  in  the  extreme.  "What  little 
reading  she  had  done  since  she  came  to  London,  would  not 
be  calculated  to  materially  raise  the  standard  of  her  ideas 
or  yield  her  a  greater  facility  of  speech :  her  education  had 
never  been  of  that  high  order  which  elevates  the  plebeian 
mind  to  a  contemplation  of  higher  things;  it  was  simply 
that  grasp  of  her  own  outlook  on  life — that  instinct  of  her 


TRAFFIC.  209 

own  fate — which  brought  involuntarily,  unconsciously,  to 
her  lips  the  words  she  said. 

There  were  moments  when — commonplace  though  he 
thought  her  circumstances  to  be — he  knew  that  he  did  not 
understand  her;  realized  that,  as  a  complexity  of  char- 
acter, she  was  utterly  beyond  him.  But  all  this  only 
added  to  her  interest. 

"  I  believe  you're  a  pessimist,"  he  said,  when  tea  was 
finished  and  she  had  been  talking  generally  about  the  effort 
that  so  many  were  compelled  to  make  to  keep  up  that 
vague,  indescribable  appearance  of  respectability. 

"An'  what's  that?"  she  asked. 

"  A  person  who  takes  the  rough  road  rather  than  the 
smooth,  and  then  offers  the  belief  that  life  is  entirely  paved 
with  uncut  stones." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  replied ;  "  but  you  say 
it  as  if  'twas  the  way  the  person  took  the  rough  road  on 
purpose." 

"  So  they  do." 

"  They  do  not — not  always.  Shure,  it  isn't  always 
there's  a  cross-road  at  all.  There  are  some  people  that 
have  one  road  the  whole  time,  and  there  be  finger-posts 
pointing  the  way,  keeping  on  telling  them  the  way,  though 
there's  no  chanst  for  them  to  go  any  other  way.  An' 
they've  got  to  keep  walking  up  hill  and  down  dale  till 
they're  stopped  in  a  wood  that's  always  lonely  and  black, 
and  then  a  big,  gray  figure  comes  out  of  the  trees " 

"Death?" 

"  Death." 

"  Those  whom  the  gods  love — die  young,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by — the  gods — but  some- 
body's lovin'  ye  if  ye  do  die  young." 

"  Nanno ! " 

"What?" 
14 


810  TRAFFIC, 

"  Why  do  you  say  these  things  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Jerningham — 'tis  the  way  with  me" 
sometimes.  Ye  was  talking  so  serious,  and  then  it  seems 
that's  what  it  all  comes  to  in  the  end." 

"  Do  you  often  think  these  things?  " 

"  Not  often — no — I'm  very  happy  sometimes — and  then 
sometimes  it  seems  as  though  bein'  happy  was  only  a  kind 
o'  piece  o'  colored  glass,  that  makes  everything  look  dif- 
ferent. Then  ye  get  tired  of  holding  it  up  in  front  o' 
yeer  eyes,  and  when  ye  put  it  down  it's  like  that." 

"Like  what?" 

"  Like  what  I  said." 

"  And  was  the  colored  glass  down  all  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  It  was  not." 

"  You've  been  happy,  then  ?  " 

"I  have—  "  she  paused.  "Oh!  I  haven't  been  so 
happy  for  a  long,,  long  time." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

XAXXO  lived  on  the  remembrance  of  that  afternoon  for 
a  considerable  length  of  time.  In  the  uneventful  course 
of  her  existence  it  stood  out  from  other  days  as  one  set 
apart,  hallowed  by  memory  of  its  pleasantness.  On  a 
calendar  that  hung  in  her  bedroom,  she  marked  the  date 
with  a  ring  of  pencil  and,  whenever  it  caught  her  eye,  she 
fell  into  a  reverie,  reviewing  it  in  all  its  details  with  a 
lingering  pleasure.  To  her  it  had  meant  a  great  deal. 
From  the  time  she  had  come  to  London  her  thankfulness 
had  all  been  for  negative  conditions — an  absence  of  tor- 
ment, an  abatement  of  suffering.  Xow  she  felt  grateful  for 
the  positive  pleasure  of  that  one  afternoon's  companionship. 
It  did  not  seem  that  there  could  be  anything  left  to  ask 
for;  but  just  that  she  might  sometimes  see  Jerningham 
and  talk  with  him,  as  she  had  done  then.  Her  desires  had 
not  one  touch  of  sensuality.  In  the  simplicity  of  her  na- 
ture, she  did  not  consider  what  his  might  be,  or  what  they 
might  become.  He  had  not  made  love  to  her  as  her  hus- 
band had  done;  he  had  not  treated  her  after  the  manner 
of  Mr.  Mossop.  She  could  not  believe  that  in  his  nature 
he  was  a  man  just  such  as  they  were.  Everything  he  did 
and  said  pointed  to  his  being  so  utterly  different,  If  she 
were  going  to  appeal  to  him  in  that,  the  coarser  way  of 
life,  it  would  have  shown  in  the  beginning;  it  would 
have  made  itself  evident  in  Ireland,  and  she  would  have 
shunned  him  from  the  first.  Xow  she  knew  that  it 
was  not  so ;  could  never  be  so.  He  was  her  friend  and,  if 

211 


212  TRAFFIC. 

ever  a  woman  needed  a  friend  on  whom  to  lean  for  the 
support  of  advice  and  companionship,  it  was  she.  Never 
through  her  life,  had  she  possessed  the  magic  lamp  of 
friendship  until  now;  and  it  was  not  her  intention  to  lose 
it  by  presuming  things  that  were  out  of  the  question. 

Father  Mehan's  warning  to  her  had,  no  doubt,  been 
instinct  with  truth.  The  world  was  full  of  men  who 
would  not  stand  by  and  see  a  young  girl  alone  without  hav- 
ing something  to  say  to  her  existence.  Belonging  to  such 
a  type,  was  Mr.  Mossop.  The  women  who  stood  alone 
were  his  prey.  He  pounced  upon  them  at  once.  But 
Jerningham  was  different.  He  had  often  seen  her — five 
times  in  all — yet  he  had  never  once  shown  one  sign  of 
desire  for  her  other  than  as  a  friend.  Could  she  have 
been  more  at  his  mercy  than  she  had  been  that  Saturday 
afternoon,  alone  with  him  in  his  rooms?  Yet  he  had  not 
taken  advantage  of  it.  HP  had  made  the  whole  position 
seem  one  of  ordinary  circumstance,  to  such  an  extent  that 
she  would  never  again  feel  any  compunction  in  going  to 
see  him. 

On  the  Friday  following  that  Saturday  afternoon,  Miss 
Shand  had  come  to  see  her  when  the  work  of  the  day  was 
over.  Maynard's  closed  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening 
and,  when  the  last  customer  had  departed,  the  two  girls 
hurried  out  of  the  building  from  the  door  which  was 
reserved  for  the  entrance  and  exit  of  the  much-despised 
commercial  traveler.  A  'bus  took  them  to  the  Fulham 
Eoad;  a  cold  and  draughty  'bus,  with  muddied  floor  and 
every  available  space  inside  plastered  with  unctuous  ad- 
vertisements. On  a  wintry  evening,  when  the  conductor's 
feet  are  cold,  and  the  rain  is  dripping  from  the  shelter  on  to 
his  shoulder,  a  'bus  is  not  the  most  cheerful  vehicle  in  the 
world.  But  these  two  took  no  heed  of  the  conductor  as  he 
stamped  impatiently  to  keep  his  feet  warm,  or  of  the  testy 


TRAFFIC.  213 

old  gentleman  with  a  muffler  across  his  mouth,  who 
coughed  and  complained  of  a  lack  of  room  at  regular  in- 
tervals. There  is  a  spirit  of  cheerfulness  that  overlooks 
these  little  details  of  life  and  Nanno,  possessed  of  it  to  the 
full,  infused  it  into  the  mind  of  her  companion. 

A  meal  that  she  had  ordered  to  be  set  in  readiness  by 
Mrs.  Hudson  was  awaiting  them  when  they  went  into 
the  sitting-room;  a  fire  was  crackling  brightly  in  the 
hearth.  They  both  emitted  exclamations  of  delight,  and 
hurried  to  the  fireplace  to  warm  themselves. 

"  Is  all  this  on  account  of  me,  dear  ?  "  asked  Miss  Shand. 

Nanno  said  "  Um  "  in  a  comprehensive  way.  The  other 
put  her  arm  round  her  waist. 

"  You're  going  to  tell  me  this  evening,  aren't  you  ?  "  she 
said. 

Xar-no  looked  quickly  at  her. 

"  Tell  you  what  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Who  the  fellow  wr.s  that  came  in  that  day  to  see  you 
— a  week  ago  to-day — aren't  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  I  would." 

"  Xo — but  you  remember,  dear,  I  asked  you." 

This  did  not  seem  to  Nanno  a  sufficient  reason  for  her 
to  speak  to  Miss  Shand  about  Jerningham.  She  did  not 
say  so,  but  then,  she  said  nothing.  Instead,  she  took  her 
companion  by  the  arm  and  led  her  into  the  bedroom. 

"  Aren't  you  dying  to  take  your  hat  off?  "  she  said,  when 
they  got  inside.  To  those  who  had  known  her  in  Ireland 
it  would  have  been  a  very  noticeable  fact  that  her  speech 
was  fast  losing  its  nationality.  She  still  had  an  evident 
inclination  to  a  brogue — that  could  never  be  entirely  eradi- 
cated— but  the  method  of  forming  her  sentences  she  had 
vastly  altered,  as  it  were  keeping  pace  with  the  complete 
change  of  her  environments. 

Miss  Shand  replied  to  her  question  with  action.     The 


214:  TRAFFIC. 

long  hat-pins  were  extracted,  the  hat  thrown  on  to  the  bed 
and,  finally,  the  pins  employed  before  the  glass  to  raise  her 
hair  from  her  forehead,  where  the  hat  had  crushed  it  down. 
When  this  operation  was  finished,  she  turned  and  looked 
round  the  room. 

There  were  fresh  pictures  on  the  walls  since  she  had 
been  there  last ;  amongst  them  was  the  gaudy-colored  print 
of  the  Sacred  Heart  that  hung  over  Nanno's  bed. 

"  Whatever's  that,  dear  ?  "  she  asked,  pointing  to  it. 

"  A  picture  of  the  Sacred  Heart." 

The  answer  conveyed  nothing  to  Miss  Shand,  beyond  the 
fact  that  it  had  some  religious  meaning.  That  the  heart 
itself  of  any  one,  however  sacred,  could  mean  anything  to 
anybody  in  this  prosaic  world  was  outside  the  pale  of  her 
comprehension. 

"  Fancy  your  being  a  Eoman  Catholic !  "  she  said,  as  she 
turned  away.  "  Isn't  it  funny  ?  " 

"  Why  funny  ?  "  asked  Nanno. 

"  I  don't  know — it  seems  strange  any  one  believing  in 
those  sort  of  things.  I  couldn't." 

Nanno  made  no  reply.  She  remembered  her  conversa- 
tion with  Jerningham  in  Ireland  on  the  second  occasion 
when  they  had  met.  He  had  said  he  could  not  believe  in 
saints,  but  in  her  heart  she  had  known  that  that  was  be- 
cause he  had  not  been  taught  the  faith  which  she  possessed. 
She  greatly  believed  that  faith  was  a  teachable  commodity. 
But  this  girl,  she  felt,  would  be  incapable,  unreceptive,  of 
instruction.  She  did  not,  could  not  blame  her  for  it ;  but 
to  discuss  it  with  her  as  she  had  done  with  Jerningham 
seemed  utterly  useless.  She  said  nothing. 

"Do  you  say  prayers  to  that?"  persisted  Miss  Shand 
lightly.  She  extracted  a  hairpin  from  her  hair  as  she 
asked  the  question,  and  commenced  to  clean  her  nails. 

"  Shure,  we  only  pray  to  God/'  ISTanno  replied  simply, 


TRAFFIC.  215 

"but  through  the  power  of  many  intercessions  and  ap- 
peals. That's  one  of  them/' 

"  How  funny ! "  Miss  Shand  repeated,  as  she  replaced 
the  hairpin.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  cat." 

For  the  first  few  moments  of  the  meal,  Nanno  felt  in 
no  mood  for  conversation.  Her  companion's  utter  dis- 
regard for  sacred  things  had  offended  the  sensitive  side 
of  her  nature  which  clung  fast  to  her  faith;  she  felt  out 
of  sympathy  with  her.  She  put  it  aside,  however,  and 
soon  they  were  laughing  and  talking  again  as  they  had 
been  when  coming  back  in  the  'bus.  The  conversation 
was  mostly  of  inconsequent  things — people  whom  they  had 
both  happened  to  observe  in  the  restaurant,  the  vagaries 
of  the  lady  superintendent,  the  jealousies  and  petty  spites 
amongst  the  other  girls.  It  would  have  interested  no  one 
but  themselves. 

At  last,  when  Nanno's  good  spirts  had  wholly  returned, 
Miss  Shand  cautiously  reverted  to  the  subject  that  she  had 
broached  when  they  first  came  in. 

"  I  believe  I've  seen  that  friend  of  yours  before/'  she 
said  suggestively. 

Nanno  looked  up  impulsively  from  her  plate. 

"Where?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,  you  know  I  told  you  that  before  I  came  to  May- 
nard's  I  was  playing  in  an  orchestra  at  a  restaurant  in 
the  Strand — you  do  remember,  don't  you,  dear  ?  " 

Nanno  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"  Well,  I  believe  I  saw  him  having  tea  there  one  after- 
noon." 

She  convinced  herself,  as  she  said  it,  that  this  was  the 
truth;  but  then,  Jerningham  was  not  an  uncommon  type, 
and  out  of  the  numberless  men  whom  she  had  seen  in  this 
particular  restaurant,  there  could  not  have  failed  to  be 
many  who  would  bear  a  slight  resemblance  to  him,  She 


216  TRAFFIC. 

might  have  seen  him — on  that  she  based  her  assertion,  and 
with  that  she  endeavored  to  convice  herself. 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ?  "  Nanno  asked,  with  interest. 

"  Oh ! — let  me  see — I've  been  in  Maynard's  for  six 
months.  It  must  have  been  just  before  then." 

"  About  seven  months  ago?  " 

"  Yes — that's  about  it.     He's  very  handsome,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know !  "  Miss  Shand  laughed  sententi- 
ously.  "  Oh,  get  along !  You  know  he  is — and  such  a 
gentleman,  too — what  I  mean  you'd  almost  think  he  was 
in  society — you  know  what  I  mean,  dear." 

"  So  he  is — he  is  a  gentleman." 

The  words  had  slipped  from  Nanno's  lips  before  she 
could  stop  them.  She  cried  in  her  heart  in  vain  to  get 
them  back ;  a  fruitless  combat  against  windmills.  The  in- 
sinuation that  he  was  not  a  gentleman,  the  subtle  insult 
of  supposing  that,  from  his  looks,  he  might  even  be  in 
society,  when  she  knew  that  he  was,  had  seen  him  in  its 
midst  herself,  was  more  than  she  could  withstand.  He 
might  be  in  Society !  And  that  word — society — meant  a 
great  deal  to  her.  She  moved  amongst  a  class  of  people 
who  used  it  to  describe  refinement,  wealth,  romance — all, 
in  fact,  that  was  the  unattainable  to  them. 

Miss  Shand  was  delighted  with  the  information.  It 
corroborated  what  she  had  already  thought  herself,  and 
served  the  more  to  increase  her  curiosity  and  interest. 

"  D'you  know,  I  guessed  as  much,"  she  said  immediately, 
assuming  not  to  have  noticed  Nanno's  evident  regret  for 
her  reply.  "  He  seems  different  to  other  men — men  like 
Mr.  Mossop,  for  instance — doesn't  he,  dear  ?  " 

Nanno  admitted  that  there  was  a  difference  between  him 
and  that  unctuous  employer  of  Maynard's  stores. 


TRAFFIC.  217 

"  I  suppose  you've  known  him  quite  a  long  time  ? " 
Miss  Shand  went  on  craftily. 

"  A  little  more  than  two  years,"  Xanno  replied  proudly. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  enviously,  yet  with  undis- 
guised admiration. 

"  Is  he  serious,  d'you  think  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Seems  a 
long  time,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

Xanno  opened  her  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  serious?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  when's  he  going  to  marry  you?  Two  years  is  a 
long  time — isn't  it  ?  " 

Xanno  leaned  on  the  table  and  looked  with  some  sort 
of  amazement  into  Miss  Shand's  face. 

"  Marry  me  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Me  ?  When's  he  going 
to  marry  me  ?  Why,  he's  a  gentleman — in  society." 

"  Well — I  don't  mind  that.  Gentlemen  in  society  marry 
actresses  sometimes.  It  isn't  because  a  man's  a  gentle- 
man that  he  can  have  his  time  with  a  girl — a  good  girl 
like  yon  are,  too — for  two  years,  and  not  marry  her  de- 
cently. One  woman's  the  same  as  another,  as  far  as  that 
goes.  A  woman's  virtue's  not  for  sale — at  least,  that's 
what  I  say — it's  only  when  her  virtue's  gone  that  you  can 
buy  from  a  woman." 

Xanno  could  scarcely  contain  her  surprise.  For  the 
first  few  words  of  what  she  said,  she  could  not  believe  that 
Miss  Shand  was  speaking  seriously.  Such  thoughts  as 
these  were  utterly  foreign  to  her.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  been  shown  an  unexpected  glimpse  into  the  manners 
and  customs  of  a  life  that  was  not  her  own.  How  any- 
one could  think  such  things  of  Mr.  Jerningham,  amazed 
her.  Then,  also,  the  suggestion  of  his  marrying  her 
seemed  so  completely  preposterous,  even  putting  aside  the 
fact  that  she  was  married  already. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,"  she  said 


218  TRAFFIC. 

at  last.  "  Shure,  he's  nothing  more  than  a  friend  to  me, 
and  never  will  be  anything  more.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  saying  when  you  think  he's  a  man  like  that." 

It  was  Miss  Shand's  turn  to  be  surprised.  She  knew 
that  Nanno  was  telling  the  truth ;  but  she  could  not  under- 
stand how,  after  an  acquaintance  of  two  years,  they  were 
nothing  more  than  friends.  As  far  as  Jerningham  him- 
self was  concerned,  she  had  her  own  opinion  of  his  nature 
as  a  man.  Her  experience  of  those  who  considered  them- 
selves gentlemen,  and  whom,  sometimes,  she  considerd  to 
be  gentlemen,  too,  had  always  proved  that  the  one  motive 
controlled  them  all;  and  it  is  hard  to  make  a  woman  of 
some  experience  believe  that  there  are  many  exceptions  to 
the  rule  which  her  experience  dictates  to  her. 

"  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  unkind,  dear," 
she  said  tactfully.  "  Of  course,  I'm  sure  I'm  all  wrong. 
But  it  does  surprise  me — fancy  your  only  being  friends! 
I  thought  it  was  something  far  more  romantic !  " 

As  though  to  place  a  climax  on  all  that  had  been  said, 
Mrs.  Hudson,  at  that  moment,  opened  the  door  and  came 
into  the  room. 

"  There's  a  gentleman  as  wants  to  see  you,  miss,"  she 
said. 

"  A  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Jerningham,  'e  calls  'isself ." 

Nanno's  face  flamed,  and  Miss  Shand  jumped  with  the 
agility  of  a  woman's  mind  to  her  conclusion. 

"  Oh ! — can't  he  come  in,  Mrs.  Hudson  ?  "  she  took  it 
upon  herself  to  say.  "  It's  all  right." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  mind." 

Nanno  stood  up  from  the  table. 

"  No — he  can't  come  in,"  she  said.  "  I'll  go  out  and  see 
him." 

Miss  Shand  laughed  as  Mrs.  Hudson,  went  away. 


TRAFFIC.  219 

"  I  guessed  he  was  more  than  a  friend,"  she  said  some- 
what spitefully. 

This  was  an  insinuation  that  Nanno  could  not  bear. 
She  hated  to  hear  any  one  make  it.  He  was  only  a  friend ! 
How  could  he  be  anything  else,  when  she  was  a  married 
woman?  She  would  show  Miss  Shand  that  she  was 
wrong. 

"  Mrs.  Hudson !  "  she  called  out,  going  to  the  door, 
"  ask  Mr.  Jerningham  to  come  upstairs !  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

JERNINGHAM  stood  in  the  doorway,  holding  his  hat  in 
his  hand. 

"  I  guessed  I  was  intruding,"  he  said,  "  by  the  doubtful 
way  in  which  the  fat  lady  downstairs  said  I  might  come 
up."  He  looked  particularly  at  Nanno.  "  I  really  only 
wanted  to  see  you  for  a  minute." 

He  came  farther  into  the  room,  and  then  Nanno,  nerv- 
ous and  timid  as  to  what  she  should  do,  took  his  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  This  is  Miss  Shand,"  she  said,  turning  towards  her 
companion.  "  Mr.  Jerningham." 

Miss  Shand  effusively  grasped  his  hand,  ill  concealing 
her  eagerness  to  meet  him. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  she  said,  and  she  smiled  engagingly. 

Jerningham,  a  little  overwhelmed,  murmured  something 
inaudibly.  He  was  not  a  man  who  could  suffer  being 
lionized  with  imperturbable  ease.  Nanno  placed  a  chair 
for  him  and  asked  him  to  sit  down. 

"  Were  you  in  the  middle  of  a  meal  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Don't  let  me  stop  you." 

They  both  assured  him  that  they  had  finished;  Nanno 
with  shy  timidity,  Miss  Shand  with  confident  assertion 
and  admiring  eyes. 

"  Is  this  a  sort  of  gala  night,  then  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Some- 
body's birthday,  or  something  like  that  ?  " 

Nanno  smiled.  "Miss  Shand  comes  in  and  plays  the 
violin  for  me  sometimes,"  she  explained — "  she  plays  beau- 

220 


TRAFFIC1.  221 

tifully,  and  she  leads  the  orchestra  at  Maynard's."  These 
last  two  statements  she  made  with  generous  impulse,  but 
Mi?s  Shand  vigorously  denied  them :  vigorously,  because  it 
called  more  attention  to  an  accomplishment  which  she  pos- 
sessed in  advantage  of  her  companion. 

If  this  man  Jerningham  were  only  a  friend  of  Xanno's, 
as  platonic  as  ISTanno  would  have  suggested  him  to  be, 
there  seemed  to  her  no  reason  why  she  should  not  endeavor 
to  pave  her  own  path  towards  his  favor.  There  had  been 
a  sufficient  number  of  examples  in  her  life  to  prove  to  her 
that  she  was  attractive  to  men.  Looking  at  her  own  re- 
flection in  a  glass,  she  would  have  called  herself  pretty; 
but  her  attraction  to  the  other  sex  did  not  originate  from 
that  point  of  view.  There  was  something  animal  in  her 
features,  something  suggestive  in  her  expression.  When 
a  man  noticed  her,  it  was  because,  in  the  way  she  was 
made,  in  the  way  she  walked,  in  the  way  she  dressed,  and 
in  the  way  she  looked  at  him,  he  was  carried  to  a  thought 
of  her  body  rather  than  of  her  mind.  The  world  contains 
many  such  women;  the  stage  is  peopled  with  them. 

And  so  she  vigorously  denied  Xanno's  praise  of  her, 
in  the  hope  that  she  would  be  asked  to  play.  Her  hope 
was  fulfilled.  More  out  of  a  sense  of  politeness  than  any 
desire  for  music,  Jerningham  expressed  a  wish  to  hear  her. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  at  once,  lest  the  request  should 
not  be  repeated,  but  protested  all  the  time,  as  she  lifted  her 
violin  out  from  its  case  and  despoiled  it  of  its  silk  wrap- 
ping, that  Xanno  had  grossly  exaggerated  her  ability. 

When  once  the  instrument  was  under  her  chin  and 
she  began  to  tune  the  strings,  she  assumed  a  pose  of 
caressing  sensuousness ;  that  same  pose  which  Xanno  had 
been  attracted  to  when  she  had  first  seen  her.  On  many 
men  it  had  the  same  effect.  She  knew  very  well  how  she 
appeared.  That  pose  had  not  been  studied  in  a  long 


223  TRAFFIC. 

mirror  without  purpose.  She  gave  the  impression  that, 
as  she  fondled  her  violin,  so  she  would  cling  in  passive 
passion  to  the  man  whom  she  would  love. 

Then  she  began  to  play,  choosing  a  somewhat  common- 
place tune;  one,  also,  that  asked  less  for  the  need  of  an 
accompaniment.  It  moved  slowly,  seductively.  She 
thrilled  each  note  with  a  passionate  tremolo,  and,  as  she 
played,  her  eyes  sought  Jerningham's  as  though  she  were 
trying  to  speak.  For  the  first  few  moments  he  watched 
her  face,  he  saw  her  pose ;  then,  when  he  became  conscious 
of  her  eyes,  he  turned  uncomfortably  away. 

But  Kanno,  whom  she  left  unnoticed,  never  looked  in 
any  other  direction.  She  was  fascinated,  as  a  snake  fas- 
cinates its  prey;  fascinated  by  a  loathing  and  a  dread,  a 
fear  and  a  contempt.  Once  she  glanced  at  Jerningham,  a 
glance  filled  with  trembling  apprehension.  He  was  not 
looking  at  Miss  Shand,  but  in  his  face  she  thought  she  saw 
him  caught  within  the  web;  struggling  half-heartedly  in 
the  spirit  to  free  himself,  yet  in  the  flesh  quiescent;  suc- 
cumbed. 

It  was  probably  from  the  point  of  that  moment  that 
the  thorn  entered  Nanno's  side — that  she  first  felt  the 
prick  of  the  goad  in  her  flesh,  galling  her  young  blood, 
making  her  leap  like  a  restive  filly  into  the  flood  of  life 
which  forever  swells  on  to  the  eddying  whirlpools  and  the 
seething  cataracts. 

The  bitter  knowledge  that,  however  low  she  stooped. 
however  contemptible  her  methods  were,  Miss  Shand  was 
utterly  within  her  rights  when  she  set  out  to  fascinate 
Jerningham — that  was  the  pricking  goad,  and  it  galled 
incessantly.  Nanno  had  not  asked  that  he  should  be  more 
than  a  friend  to  her.  Her  most  vital  senses  had  not  till 
then  been  touched  by  any  other  desire  of  him.  Now  she 
knew  that  if  Miss  Shand,  with 'her  superior  right — the 


TRAFFIC.  223 

superior  right  of  her  freedom — were  to  win  him,  the 
friendship  would  break,  as  a  bubble  that  escapes  and  is 
caught  in  its  passage  by  a  gust  of  wind. 

Months  might  have  gone  by,  had  conditions  remained 
as  they  were,  and  Xanno  would  still  have  believed  herself 
to  be  contented  with  friendship.  But  now,  brought  to  a 
crisis  in  a  moment,  she  had  come  to  know  that  she  loved 
this  quiet,  simple  man  with  his  unselfish  ways  and  his 
gentle  consideration  of  her.  She  loved  him  for  his 
strength,  as  she  loved  him  for  his  almost  childlike  interests 
in  little  things.  And  still,  even  with  that  knowledge  press- 
ing through  her  blood,  there  was  nothing  of  the  sensual  in 
her  affection.  The  matter  was  almost  entirely  intellectual 
She  loved  him  with  her  mind,  though  it  is  not  improbable 
that,  had  this  realization  come  to  her  before  her  marriage 
with  Jamesy,  she  might  then  have  loved  him  passionately, 
too.  But,  compared  with  the  instincts  that  were  alive  in 
her  companion,  her  thoughts  of  Jerningham  were  as  un- 
tainted as  the  air  of  the  early  morning  that  is  swept  up 
from  the  sea.  She  had  been  brought  by  wholesome  jealousy 
to  know  that  she  wanted  him  for  herself.  It  was  a  desire 
that  she  would  not  disclose.  Above  everything  in  her  mind 
there  rose  the  consideration  of  him,  his  happiness,  his  wel- 
fare. These  were  infinitely  more  dear  to  her  than  any 
pleasure  of  her  own  and,  with  a  subtle  instinct,  as  she 
watched  her  companion's  face,  she  knew  that  they  were 
safer  in  her  hands  than  in  the  keeping  of  Miss  Shand. 

When  the  playing  was  finished,  the  performer  laid  her 
violin  back  in  its  case.  Her  hands  were  shaking  as  she 
wrapped  the  silk  scarf  around  it — little  beads  of  perspira- 
tion stood  out  upon  her  lip. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Shand,"  Jerningham  said, 
as  she  came  back  to  the  table.  "I  don't  know  a  thing 
about  music,  but  it  sounded  very  nice." 


224  TRAFFIC. 

He  did  not  look  at  her  while  he  spoke,  though  her  eyes 
were  strained  to  his. 

"  It's  not  up  to  much  to  play  without  an  accompani- 
ment." She  turned  to  Nanno.  "  Sounds  better  with  the 
orchestra — doesn't  it,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  does,"  Nanno  replied. 

There  followed  a  slight  pause  between  the  three,  then 
Jerningham  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I  have  to  be  getting  off,"  he  said  decisively.  He  saw 
no  opportunity  of  Miss  Shand's  departure,  and  so  hoped 
that  Nanno  might  come  downstairs  with  him  to  the  door. 

Miss  Shand  at  once  picked  up  her  violin  case. 

"  I  must  go  too,  dear,"  she  said.  "  I  said  I  couldn't 
stay  for  long — didn't  I  ?  " 

Nanno  looked  for  a  moment  from  one  to  the  other. 
The  thought  had  leaped  into  her  mind  that  there  might 
be  some  understanding  between  them,  but  the  half-con- 
cealed annoyance  that  passed  through  Jerningham's  eyes 
dispelled  the  suspicion.  Such  a  thought,  by  nature,  was 
beneath  her.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  she  gave  too  much 
trust  to  the  people  whom  she  met;  but  now  she  was 
racked  with  jealousy.  Her  heart  beat  with  it,  her  breath 
was  quickened  by  it. 

"  Would  you  like  to  put  on  your  hat,  then?  "  she  said. 

Miss  Shand  readily  assented,  passing  at  once  into  the 
inner  room. 

The  moment  that  they  were  left  alone,  Jerningham  came 
to  Nanno's  side. 

"  I  haven't  said  what  I  wanted  to,  yet,"  he  asid  quietly. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"  What  is  it?" 

"  I  have  to  go  down  to  a  place  called  Hitchin  to-morrow 
afternoon,  to  see  a  client.  Hitchin's  a  jolly  little  country 
place,  stocked  with  quaint  corners — not  like  your  country, 


TRAFFIC.  225 

places  in  Ireland — more  civilized,  you  know.  It's  in 
Hertford,  about  an  hour's  journey  outside  London " 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  at  last.  He  would  have  gone  labor- 
ing on  for  some  time  longer,  sensitive  about  coming  to  the 
point  of  what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"  I  want  to  know  if  you'd  like  to  come,"  he  said,  with 
sudden  impulse.  "  The  outing'll  do  you  a  heap  of  good, 
and  you  haven't  seen  any  of  the  country  in  England  yet 
— have  you  ?  " 

"  No— [  haven't." 

"  Well— d'you  think  you'd  like  it  ?  We'll  try  what  sort 
of  tea  they'll  give  us  down  at  Hitchin.  You'd  better 
come,  you  know.  Of  course,  if  you  think " 

"  'Tis  the  way  I  don't  think  anything  at  all — except 
that  I'd  like  to  come.  I  would  indeed." 

He  patted  her  back  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  That's  remarkably  sensible,"  he  said  gaily.  "  Stick- 
ing up  here  in  town,  when  there's  the  whole  acreage  of 
England  open  to  you,  will  only  lay  you  up.  You  want 
fathering,  you  know." 

She  laughed  brightly,  and  then  they  made  their  arrange- 
ments for  the  morrow.  At  any  other  time,  Nanno  might 
have  refused  this  offer,  much  as  it  appealed  to  her.  But 
then,  with  jealousy  knocking  at  her  heart,  she  would  have 
been  inhuman  had  she  not  consented. 

The  next  moment,  Miss  Shand  came  in  from  the  other 
room. 

"  Which  way  are  you  going,  Mr.  Jerningham  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  The  City,"  he  replied. 

"  Oh — then  we  shall  be  going  together.  I  live  up  the 
Gray's  Inn  Eoad." 

Xanno  had  anticipated  this.  She  knew  that  it  had  been 
the  intention  of  Miss  Shand's  departure  and,  when  they 
15 


226  TRAFFIC. 

had  gone,  and  the  noise  of  the  hall  door  closing  below  had 
reached  her  ears,  she  stood  at  the  closed  window  and 
pictured  them  in  her  imagination  in  the  street  beneath. 
Jerningham  had  asked  her  to  go  with  him  the  next  day; 
but  then,  in  the  all-important  present,  Miss  Shand  had 
him  to  herself.  A  breath  of  hot  wind  seemed  to  fan  her 
face.  Yet  still  she  stood  at  the  window,  irresolute.  At 
last  the  inclination  overcame  her.  She  undid  the  bolt, 
and  raised  the  window;  then,  leaning  out,  she  looked  up 
the  street. 

They  were  just  turning  the  corner.  Before  they  were 
out  of  sight,  she  saw  Miss  Shand  look  up  into  his  face; 
in  a  breath  of  silence,  she  heard  her  laugh.  So  do  voices 
sound  in  hell.  The  next  moment,  they  had  gone.  She 
stood  back  again  into  the  room,  following  them  with  her 
mind's  eye. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed  involuntarily,  as  the  picture  be- 
came vivid;  "it's  wrong  o'  me — I  know  it's  wrong! " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THERE  was  no  liltle  anticipation  in  Jerningham's  mind 
as  he  walked  away  with  Miss  Shand  that  night.  He  did 
not  understand  women ;  he  did  not  understand  Miss  Shand 
— but  he  knew,  by  no  very  subtle  instinct,  when  the  devil 
was  at  large.  Without  exactly  understanding  why,  he 
had  seen  it  in  her  eyes  as  she  had  played  the  violin — with- 
out reasoning  the  cause,  he  had  heard  it  in  her  voice  when 
she  had  announced  that  she  too  was  coming  home  and  that 
their  ways  lay  in  the  same  direction. 

Her  laugh — the  laugh  that  Nanno  had  heard — had  been 
one  of  flattery  at  some  dry  remark  that  he  had  made,  not 
intended  to  be  exactly  humorous.  And  in  that  laugh,  he 
heard  and  felt  her  abandonment.  Then  for  some  mo- 
ments they  had  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  Have  you  known  Nanno  Troy  for  long  ?  "  he  asked 
presently. 

"  Only  since  she  came  to  Maynard's.  She's  a  dear 
little  thing:  I'm  very  fond  of  her." 

Jerningham  nodded  approvingly.  He  did  not  follow 
her  subtle  discretion.  He  did  not  see  the  motive  behind 
her  remark,  and  accordingly  it  produced  the  effect  she 
wished  for.  He  thawed  a  little;  he  became  more  genial. 
In  a  few  minutes  they  were  laughing  and  talking  with  a 
greater  ease. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  she  asked  after  a  time. 

"The  Temple— Middle  Temple— Plowden  Buildings." 
227 


228  TRAFFIC. 

"  Oh — you  poor  thing.    Do  you  live  by  yourself  then?  " 

"  An  inveterate  bachelor." 

"  Oh  ?  "  There  was  a  depth  of  insinuation  in  her  voice. 
"Inveterate?"  she  added — "But  you  never  know.  I  ex- 
pect you  find  you  can  get  along  just  as  well  that  way 
though— eh  ?  " 

Jerningham  laughed  sharply  at  her  audacity. 

"  Afraid  I  don't  consider  the  question  much  either  way," 
he  answered. 

By  an  unnoticeable  degree,  she  brought  her  step  closer 
to  his,  so  that  they  touched  as  they  walked.  He  thought 
it  was  by  accident  until  it  recurred  again  once  or  twice. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  face. 

"  Are  you  going  back  home  again  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  am." 

"All  by  yourself?" 

"  All  by  myself." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  suggestive  smile.  "  And 
you  an  inveterate  bachelor — oh,  don't  tell  me !  " 

"I  am,  I  assure  you.  It's  too  late  to  turn  into  a 
theater ;  besides,  I  don't  know  that  I'd  care  to  go  to  one  if 
I  could." 

"I  didn't  mean  that — you  know  I  didn't." 

"  Then  what  did  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mind  if  I  take  your  arm  ?  it's  so  slippy  and 
muddy  underfoot." 

"  Suppose  we  get  a  hansom — it  is  much  too  wet  for 
walking.  I  can  drive  you  back.  It's  more  or  less  in  my 
way." 

"  Oh— that  'ud  be  luscious— wouldn't  it  ?  " 

Jerningham  hailed  a  passing  hansom,  helped  her  in, 
asked  her  the  address  of  her  rooms  and,  telling  the  cab- 
man where  to  drive,  shut  the  doors  upon  them. 

She  sat  as  close  to  him  as  she  could,  her  elbow  pro- 


TRAFFIC.  229 

truding  across  his  arm,  and  for  a  moment  he  shut  his  eyes, 
listening  to  the  conflict  of  his  conscience  with  himself. 
On  one  side  was  urged  the  policy  to  take  life  as  it  came; 
as  in  a  measure  he  had  always  taken  it.  On  the  other 
side  he  saw  the  sad,  wistful  eyes  of  Nanno,  whom  they 
had  just  left  behind  them.  Involuntarily  he  made  a  com- 
parison between  this  sensuous  girl  beside  him  and  her. 
The  man  in  him,  the  man  himself,  as  God  had  made  him, 
was  revolted  by  the  picture  that  it  produced.  Beside  this 
piece  of  flotsam  of  London  life,  this  girl  who  made  her 
existence  a  trap  for  the  weaker  nature  of  men,  Nanno 
stood  apart  as  a  fresh  wild  flower  that  rises  out  of  a  dust- 
heap  :  so  a  daffodil  makes  pollen  out  of  that  dust  of  pure 
gold  and  extracts  it  from  the  refuse  of  the  earth.  She 
was  all  that  eliminated  the  best  side  of  a  man  from  the 
dross  of  his  nature.  She  was  a  pure,  undefiled  child,  with 
a  majestic  faith;  whilst  this  girl  here  was  nothing  but  the 
scum  that  finds  its  way  to  the  surface,  floating  about, 
attracted  to  everything  that  comes  near  its  course. 

Why  did  he  not  desire  to  win  Nanno,  who  was  clean, 
white,  fresh  as  God  had  sent  her  forth — ISTanno,  whose 
untouched  mind  would  lift  him  above  this  occasional  de- 
mand to  take  the  fruit  that  drops  with  its  sordid  over- 
ripeness  into  the  hand? 

While  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  he  an- 
swered Miss  Shand  with  disinterested  monosyllables.  She 
could  extract  nothing  from  him  because  he  was  just  at 
that  crisis  of  a  man's  life  when  the  lesser  things  of  the 
world  become  insignificant  before  the  great,  illuminating 
power  of  some  higher,  more  inspiring  motive. 

The  hero  is  not  by  any  means  the  perfect  man.  He 
has  his  sins — he  has  his  feelings.  The  hero  rather  is 
the  man  who,  passing  through  life,  dealing  honorably 
with  all  men  and  all  women — even  with  the  worst  of  them 


230  TRAFFIC. 

— is  at  last  lifted  above  the  surface  where  all  light  matter 
lies;  lifted  above  it  by  the  great  light  of  some  nobler  feel- 
ing— the  unconquerable  hope  of  being  able  to  conquer  with 
the  right;  lifted  above  a  common  desire  to  an  unselfish 
fanaticism  as  Jerningham,  in  his  comparison  between 
Nanno  and  Miss  Shand,  was  borne  above  the  wish  to  take 
the  life  that  came  into  the  desire  to  win  the  life  that 
was  beyond  him.  Such  a  state  as  this  is  hero-ship;  the 
moment  when  a  human  being,  launching  forth  beyond  that 
tide  of  earthly  endeavor  to  reach  the  ultimate  good,  as- 
cends above  the  needs  of  the  flesh  towards  the  striving  of 
the  spirit.  All  the  world  sets  forth  to  climb  that  moun- 
tain of  good  intention;  but  it  is  only  the  hero  who  raises 
his  head  above  the  clouds  and  gains  the  light  in  the 
brilliant  atmosphere  beyond. 

Unconsciously,  ISTanno  had  effected  her  first  influence 
upon  Jerningham;  but  the  attitude  that  his  mind  had 
reached  was  because  of  her,  rather  than  for  her  sake. 
Such  a  man,  living  the  solitary  life  that  he  had  lived,  is 
not  quick  to  see  the  state  of  mind  into  which  he  is  drift- 
ing. He  can  realize  the  present  and  its  immediate  sur- 
roundings, but  he  is  not  sufficiently  introspective  to  grasp 
the  trend  of  circumstances  and  construe  their  meaning  to 
himself.  Jerningham  was  fully  aware  that  Nanno  had 
been  the  influence  which  had  led  him  to  the  conquering 
of  his  senses;  but  he  was  not  yet  aware  that  he  loved  her. 
The  moment  when  a  man  recognizes  that  a  certain  woman 
is  essential  to  him,  had  not  as  yet  illuminated  his  under- 
standing. He  put  it  all  down  to  interest;  he  ascribed  it 
to  the  belief  that  women  can  be  the  best  as  also  they 
may  be  the  worst  influence  in  a  man's  life.  In  that  mo- 
ment, when  he  had  determined  to  resist  the  opportunity 
that  Miss  Shand  was  subtly  offering  to  him,  he  thought 
of  Nanno  as  a  personality  infinitely  beyond  his  reach,  in- 


TRAFFIC.  231 

finitely  beyond  the  principles  of  his  own  conception  of 
morality.  And  this  state  of  mind,  it  needed  only  one 
spark  of  intimacy  to  set  into  the  flame  of  an  absorbing 
passion.  For  that  his  whole  nature  was  unconsciously 
waiting. 

The  cab  at  last  pulled  up  opposite  the  house  where  Miss 
Shand  lived.  Jerningham  got  out  first,  protecting  the 
wheel,  so  that  she  should  not  soil  her  skirt.  She  waited 
while  he  paid  the  driver  and  then,  as  the  man  drove  off, 
Jerningham  turned  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  offer  to  take  his  hand.  She  looked  up  ex- 
pectantly into  his  face. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  for  a  bit  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  better,"  he  replied  quietly. 

She  came  closer  to  him,  still  looking  up  into  his  face. 
"  Just  for  a  little  while — come  along  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  better,"  he  repeated  stolidly. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  there'd  be  a  lot  of  people  in  the 
house  ?  There  won't — we  can  be  quite  alone.  Do  come — 
I  want  you  to."  Her  voice  quivered  on  the  last  words. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  the  Temple,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  eagerly. 

"  Well — take  me,"  she  suggested. 

He  stood  back  from  her. 

"Miss  Shand,"  he  said — "don't  think  I  blame  you  in 
the  least.  Things  of  that  sort  scarcely  enter  my  head.  I 

suppose  I've  knocked  about  too  much But  you're  a 

friend  of  Xanno  Troy's.  It's  probably  in  your  hands 
to  a  certain  extent  what  outlook  she  gets  of  life.  At 
present  she's  absolutely  untouched — and — there's  no  need 
to  describe  what  you  want  with  me  now — I've  told  you 
blame  doesn't  enter  my  head — but  if  you  spoiled  Xanno 


232  TRAFFIC. 

Troy's  life  you'd  be  committing  the  greatest  sin  you  ever 
did  in  the  whole  of  your  existence." 

All  the  time  she  watched  his  face;  and  when  he  had 
finished,  she  laughed  with  passionate  disappointment. 
Her  lip  curled,  defying  the  tears  of  her  chagrin. 

"  Why,  you  love  her  yourself !  "  she  exclaimed  ironically. 
"  You  love  her  yourself,  and  she  told  me  you  were  only  a 
friend.  I  guessed  she  was  talking  out  of  the  back  of  her 
neck ! " 

"I  love  her?"  Jerningham  repeated;  "I  think  a  great 
deal  of  her — but  heavens!  I've  never  been  in  love  in 
my  life.  But  don't  you  forget  what  I  say.  In  a  measure 
— Nanno  Troy  is  in  your  hands.  Good-night." 

He  turned  away.  She  watched  him  as  he  walked  up  the 
muddy,  pavement  into  the  Gray's  Inn  Road,  but  he  did  not 
look  back,  as  she  had  half  hoped  that  he  would. 

"  I  love  her  ?  "  he  kept  repeating  to  himself.  "  I  love 
her?  I  wonder  what  made  her  think  that.  She's  a 
splendid  character,  of  course — but " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  impulse  upon  which  Xanno  had  accepted  Jerning- 
ham's  proposal  that  she  should  go  with  him  into  the 
country  had  its  reaction.  With  subsequent  consideration, 
she  believed  that  she  had  done  wrong.  Knowing,  as  she 
did  now,  that  she  loved  him,  it  seemed  but  a  tempting  of 
temptation  to  yield  to  the  delight  of  having  his  companion- 
ship. Yet  again  and  again  the  thought  prompted  itself 
— she  was  really  nothing  to  him.  Being  with  him  might 
be  the  draining  of  a  cup  filled  up  to  the  brim  with  a 
bitter  pleasure,  yet  so  long  as  she  took  the  draught  in 
secret,  who  would  it  hurt  but  herself  ?  There  was  no  con- 
tingency which  she  could  foresee,  under  whose  influence 
she  would  expose  her  secret.  Then,  last  of  all,  on  this 
occasion  at  least,  she  had  promised,  and  the  high  regard 
in  which  she  held  him  forbade  her  from  breaking  it. 

And  so  it  was  the  next  day  that  they  met  at  the  station, 
and  left  London  by  some  early  afternoon  train. 

"  I've  looked  up  the  trains  back,"  Jerningham  told  her, 
when  they  were  seated  in  the  empty  first-class  carriage, 
"  and  the  last  one  leaves  Hitchin  at  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  so  that  we'll  have  to  come  by  that  whether  we  like 
it  or  not." 

"  But  shure,  that's  quite  late  enough,"  she  said. 

"  D'you  think  so  ?  I  don't.  I  wanted  to  give  you 
dinner  there.  There's  a  fine  old-fashioned  inn  in  the 
High  Street,  about  three  hundred  years  old,  with  a  reg- 
ular coaching  courtyard — that's  where  we'll  have  tea. 

233 


234  TRAFFIC. 

And  I  wanted  to  have  dinner.  Well,  we  can  get  that  up 
in  town." 

She  did  not  tell  him  then  that  she  would  go  straight 
back  home  when  they  returned ;  but  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  it.  It  was  good  to  be  with  him  certainly;  but  she 
loved  him — every  moment  that  he  spoke  she  loved  him 
the  more — and  then,  when  she  realized  the  unutterable 
hopelessness  of  it,  it  seemed  to  her  self-torture  that  was 
unnecessary.  If  she  could  only  feel  his  arms  about  her 
once,  she  thought — just  once  realize  that  he  too  could  love 
her;  then  she  believed  that  she  could  go  from  him  forever 
and  exist  upon  the  remembrance  of  that  moment  for  the 
rest  of  her  life. 

Jerningham  watched  her  as,  looking  out  of  the  windows 
at  the  leafless  trees  that  flitted  by  like  passing  skeletons, 
she  let  these  thoughts  course  through  her  mind.  Miss 
Shand's  words  persistently  recurred  to  him.  They 
sounded  in  his  memory  like  a  distant  prophecy,  but  be- 
cause the  moment  of  intimacy  had  not  yet  come,  he  could 
not  really  understand  them.  To  love  meant  in  a  sense 
to  desire  and,  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  could  only  think  of 
the  curious  loneliness  of  her  life,  her  untouched  virtue 
and  her  majestic  faith.  The  element  of  desire  seemed  al- 
most sacrilege. 

This  state  of  mind,  it  will  be  admitted,  could  be  no 
fitter  preparation  for  the  great  illumination  of  the  greatest 
passion  in  the  world;  the  passion  that  must  possess  all — 
body  and  soul — yet  is  ready  without  thought  to  give  life, 
if  need  be,  in  return. 

"  It's  a  pity  it's  not  spring  or  summer  time,"  Jerning- 
ham said  at  length,  after  a  lapse  of  silence. 

"  Ah — what  a  pity !  "  she  echoed  feelingly.  "  The 
winter's  an  unkind  time  of  the  year.  In  Ireland,  if  any 
one  goes  away  for  the  winter,  they  always  ask  who  died 
when  they  come  back," 


TRAFFIC.  235 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  death,  Xanno  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  then — not  always.  There  are  some  ways  that 
I  could  die  quite  happily.  Shure,  I  could  always  die 
happily  if  I  got  Plenary  Indulgence." 

"  That's  entire  forgiveness,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  is." 

"If  a  person  obtains  Plenary  Indulgence,  they  go 
straight  to  heaven — don't  they  ?  " 

"  They  do." 

"  Well,  now,  supposing  a  person  was  excommunicated 
from  the  Church — couldn't  they  get  Plenary  Indulgence 
when  they  were  dying  ?  " 

"  They  could  not — not  if  the  Church  had  closed  its 
doors  against  them."  As  she  said  this,  the  words  of 
Father  Mehan's  warning  echoed  in  her  ears,  and  the  fear 
of  such  a  state  of  desolation  chilled  the  blood  in  her.  She 
closed  her  eyes  involuntarily.  Jerningham  watched  her, 
half-seeing  what  she  felt. 

"  The  thought  of  such  a  possibility  frightens  you — eh  ?  " 
he  said  questioningly. 

She  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Couldn't  we  talk  of  something  else  ?  "  she  suggested. 

He  turned  the  conversation  lightly  into  another  channel. 

So  far  they  had  had  the  carriage  to  themselves,  but  at 
the  next  station  where  they  stopped,  a  smartly  dressed 
woman  and  an  immaculate-Jooking  man  got  in.  Seeing 
Xanno  and  Jerningham  alone  together,  the  man  had  hesi- 
tated when  he  approached  the  door. 

"  Oh,  this'll  do,"  the  woman  said  petulantly,  and  they 
had  entered  the  carriage,  occupying  two  corners  at  the 
farther  end. 

"  Well,  thank  goodness,  that's  over,"  she  said,  leaning 
back  in  her  seat  and  lifting  her  veil  on  to  her  forehead. 

"It  was  a  tight  job,"  said  the  man,  " but  I  think  we 
managed." 


236  TRAFFIC. 

"Tight?     Xot  a  bit  of  it !  " 

"  But  look  at  the  way  she  cried." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  companion  with  some  pity. 

"  Cried !  Do  you  think  there  was  any  salt  in  those 
tears?" 

"  How  on  earth  should  I  know  ?  I  saw  plenty  rolling 
down  her  cheeks." 

The  woman  shrugged  her  elegant  shoulders. 

"  Men  are  always  sentimentalists !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  don't  call  that  sentiment.  There  was  not  a  doubt 
in  my  mind  that  she  was  fearfully  cut  up.  You  admitted 
yourself,  before  we  got  there,  that  she  was  pretty  keen 
on  the  chap.  I  don't  suppose  she  cared  for  him  any  the 
less  because  she  saw  it  was  better  to  give  him  up.  Why, 
they've  been  engaged  for  five  years." 

Through  all  this  conversation  Xanno  and  Jerningham 
were  silent.  They  could  not  help  listening;  the  people 
made  no  effort  to  lower  their  voices.  It  is  almost  a  sign 
of  breeding  nowadays  to  talk  with  a  loud  voice. 

"  Hadn't  they  been  engaged  five  years  ?  "  the  man  con- 
tinued. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Good  deal,  I  should  think.  You  can't  obliterate  five 
years  in  five  minutes." 

"No,  you  couldn't;  but  a  woman  can — if  it's  to  her 
own  advantage.  Now,  I'll  just  tell  you  something — 
merely  for  the  sake  of  opening  your  eyes." 

"Well?" 

"  You  heard  her  say — didn't  you — that  she  didn't  care 
whether  he  had  five  thousand  a  year  or  fifty  thousand  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  when  you  went  into  the  hall,  she  crossed  to  the 
glass  over  the  mantelpiece,  dried  her  eyes,  settled  her 
hair  a  bit,  and  then  came  and  put  her  hands  on  my 


TRAFFIC.  237 

shoulders.  '  Has  he  really  five  thousand  a  year?  '  she  said. 
I  told  her,  of  course,  that  we  knew  it  for  an  absolute  fact. 
Then  she  dangled  about  with  that  pendant  you  gave  me, 
and  asked  me  what  he'd  said  and  I  told — putting  it  the 
best  way  I  could." 

"  I  know/'  said  her  companion,  nodding  comprehen- 
sively. 

"  And  then — what  d'you  think  she  said  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  She  said,  '  Of  course,  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him  aw- 
fully, when  I  get  to  know  him  a  little  better — he's  fright- 
fully good-natured.'  t  And  he's  got  five  thousand  a  year, 
which  is  more  than  ten  times  better  than  an  uncertain 
five  hundred,'  I  said.  She  nodded.  '  Is  he  very  much  in 
love  ? '  she  said  then.  Then  I  nodded.  And  then  she 
laughed — it  was  the  sort  of  giggle  when  a  girl  is  paid  a 
compliment.  '  I'm  awfully  lucky,  aren't  I  ?  '  she  said." 

"Did  she  really  say  that?"  the  man  asked,  amazed. 
"  Did  she  say  that  she  was  lucky?  " 

"  Of  course  she  did — so  she  is." 

"  Good  heavens !  And  she  was  crying  again  like  a  fish 
when  you  came  out  into  the  hall  again." 

"  Well,  you  can't  expect  a  woman  to  show  everything 
she's  feeling  before  a  man.  I  assure  you  sentiment  is 
mostly  a  pose  when  you  find  it  in  women.  Men  buy  and 
women  sell — there  must  be  some  bluff  somewhere  over  a 
transaction  like  that.  She  laughed,  but  the  man — and  he 
was  evidently  her  husband — looked  at  her  with  dazed 
comprehension. 

At  the  next  station  they  got  out,  and  then  Jerningham 
and  ISTanno  looked  at  each  other.  Throughout  the  whole 
of  the  conversation  they  had  not  said  a  word.  The  whole 
affair  had  been  so  consecutive,  so  obvious.  It  was  a  com- 


238  TRAFFIC. 

plete  story  of  life,  ripped  from  the  seam.  As  soon  as  the 
carriage  door  had  closed,  Jerningham  laughed  ironically. 

"  Did  you  listen  to  all  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  did." 

"  What  did  you  make  of  it  ?  " 

"  The  way  some  friend  of  theirs  was  going  to  be  married 
to  one  man,  and  they'd  been  to  persuade  her  to  break  it 
off  for  another  with  more  money." 

"  That's  it.  The  friend  I  should  imagine  was  the  wo- 
man's sister.  But  what  did  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  thought  anything." 

Jerningham  leaned  forward  on  his  seat  and  looked  up  at 
her. 

"  I  did,"  he  said — "  I  thought  a  good  deal.  It's  more 
or  less  true  what  that  woman  said — men  want  to  buy  and 
women  have  to  sell — it's  the  proper  thing  for  a  woman  to 
be  married ;  either  for  the  look  of  it  or  the  homing  instinct. 
But,  my  heavens — surely  every  woman  doesn't  bluff,  does 
she  ?  "  He  half  paused,  in  tentative  expectation  that  she 
would  answer  him. 

"  You  wouldn't  bluff — would  you,  Nanno  ?  "  he  went 
on,  putting  the  question  more  seriously  and  directly  to 
her. 

She  looked  frightened  into  his  eyes. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  bluff  ? '  she  asked,  relapsing  into 
her  old  use  of  the  pronoun. 

"  Would  you  pretend  you  loved  a  man  in  order  to  get 
him  to  marry  you,  if  you  thought  he  had  a  comfortable 
position  to  offer  ?  " 

"I  would  not,"  she  said,  half  confused  by  the  inpulsive 
intensity  of  his  question. 

"Would  you  marry  a  man,"  he  persisted,  little  think- 
ing how  he  was  torturing  her  mind,  "simply  because  he 


TRAFFIC.  239 

could  better  your  position  in  life,  or  because  you  considered 
that  a  woman's  only  justification  is  marriage  ?  " 

For  a  moment  before  she  answered,  she  wondered 
whether  it  would  be  right  for  her  to  say  what  she  really 
thought.  For  fear  he  might  think  too  well  of  her,  ought 
she  not  to  make  herself  a  disappointment  to  him  and  an- 
swer that  she  would  marry  any  man  who  could  give  her  a 
comfortable  home,  and  that  from  a  sense  of  duty  to  her- 
self? An  inner  voice  cried  to  her  that  this  was  untrue. 
And  why  should  she  tell  him  an  untruth?  She  had  been 
forced  into  marriage  with  the  man  who  was  her  husband; 
that  alone  proved  to  her  that,  if  she  answered  as  her  con- 
science prompted,  it  would  be  false. 

"  Would  you  marry  a  man  for  either  of  these  reasons  ?  " 
he  asked  again. 

She  paused.     "  I  would  not,"  she  said. 

"  You'd  marry  him  because  you  loved  him  ?  " 

"  I  would." 

"  Were  you  ever  in  love,  Xanno  ?  "  he  added. 

She  looked  across  the  carriage  with  strained  eyes,  and 
though  she  did  not  see,  she  felt  the  intensity  in  his. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  those  questions  ?  "  she  said  pite- 
ously,  with  averted  face. 

Before  he  could  reply  to  her,  the  train  slowed  down,  and 
they  entered  a  station. 

"  We  get  out  here,"  he  said.    "  This  is  Hitchin." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHILE  Jerningham  went  to  see  his  client,  Nanno  wan- 
dered round  the  thriving  little  market-town.  He  had 
told  her  to  meet  him  at  four  o'clock  outside  a  shop  of  her 
own  selection  in  the  High  Street,  and  until  then — much 
to  his  disgust,  and  he  admitted  it — she  was  compelled  to 
entertain  herself. 

Entertainment  to  ISTanno  consisted  in  looking  into  one 
shop-window  after  another;  pointing  out  to  herself  in  this 
one,  various  little  things  that  she  would  like  to  buy  for 
her  room,  and  in  that,  speculating  upon  the  price  of  hats 
or  blouses  which  she  knew  were  beyond  the  power  of  her 
pocket  to  purchase.  Jerningham  had  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  go  and  wait  for  him  in  the  hotel  where  they  wore 
to  have  tea,  but  this  she  refused.  She  felt  sensitive  about 
what  people  might  think  of  her. 

After  much  indiscriminate  wandering,  she  at  last 
reached  the  market-place.  The  half-lights  of  the  evening 
were  beginning  to  creep  out  of  the  shadows.  Christmas 
was  only  two  weeks  away,  and  the  square  of  stalls  within 
the  square  of  houses  had  already  begun  to  light  up  their 
lamps. 

The  entire  picture  of  the  numerous  sweet-stalls  with 
their  loads  of  brightly  colored  sweets,  the  vegetable-stalls 
with  their  burdens  of  brilliant  greens  and  glaring  reds  that 
picked  out  daubs  of  color  with  no  outline  and  no  shape, 
offered  such  an  effect  as  a  Whistler  might  have  produced. 
No  great  ability  of  technique  would  have  been  needed  for 

240 


TRAFFIC.  241 

its  representation  upon  canvas :  only  a  heart  that  loved  it 
for  its  dull,  soft  beauty's  sake,  for  its  cunning  indefm- 
ability  and  its  subtle  gradients  of  light.  Here  and  there 
a  face  of  a  man  or  of  a  woman  would  be  lit  up  in  profile 
by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp.  The  stalls  all  lost  their 
shapes  in  the  shadows  that  surrounded  them.  Back- 
grounded on  every  side  by  the  deep  tones  of  the  houses 
of  the  square,  the  outline  of  one  thing  was  washed  into 
another;  whilst,  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  lightless 
patches  of  color  and  splashes  of  orange  from  the  lamps 
stole  away  out  of  the  mist  and  reached  the  eye  with  efforts 
of  relief. 

To  Xanno  it  appealed  indefinably.  For  some  moments 
it  made  her  think  of  the  Pattern  day  at  home  and,  until 
it  was  time  for  her  to  go  and  meet  Jerningham,  she 
waited  there  and  watched  the  business  that  was  being  con- 
ducted on  every  side  of  her. 

At  length,  when  the  church  clock  struck  the  hour  of 
four,  she  turned  away  in  the  direction  of  the  High  Street. 
The  lamplighter  was  already  going  his  rounds.  One  by 
one,  as  he  passed  down  the  street,  a  little  beacon  was 
kindled  in  its  brazier  and  sought  out  its  reflection  in  the 
puddle  that  made  murky  mirrors  in  the  road.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  she  would  be  with  him  again;  he  would 
perhaps  be  asking  her  the  same  questions  which  the  arrival 
of  their  train  in  Hitchin  had  put  an  end  to.  What  did 
it  mean?  And  how  should  she  answer  them?  During 
the  hour  in  which  she  had  been  away  from  him,  she  had 
tried  to  think  it  all  out.  "What  lay  behind  those  questions 
he  had  asked?  She  did  not  rightly  know.  She  could 
not  believe  that  there  had  ever  entered  his  consideration 
a  thought  of  marrying  her.  There  was  nothing  in  her  to 
sufficiently  attract  him  to  that ;  it  was  for  this  reason,  as 
much  as  any  other,  that  she  felt  so  grateful  to  him  for 
16 


242  TRAFFIC. 

his  friendship.  No  man,  she  thought,  would  ever  see  in 
the  poverty  of  her  breeding,  the  lack  of  her  education, 
so  much  as  he  had  seen.  Yet,  creating  the  most  unlikely 
suppositions,  if  it  were  so,  that  he  even  for  a  moment  had 
thought  of  making  her  his  wife,  would  it  not  be  right  for 
her  to  tell  him  now;  to  break  up  their  friendship  at  once 
by  giving  him  the  truth  about  herself? 

When  she  saw  him  in  the  distance;  when  she  saw  the 
smile  of  eagerness  that  broke  over  his  face,  she  said  she 
knew  it  would  be  right. 

"  It  must  be !  "  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath  as  she 
approached  him,  and  there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice,  the 
voluntary  breaking  of  her  own  happiness.  It  was  the  first 
times  since  she  had  left  Ireland  that  the  iron  yoke  had 
begun  really  to  bite  into  the  flesh;  but  she  set  her  teeth, 
her  eyes  smiled  when  she  met  him.  He  did  not  know  that 
she  was  walking  into  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death — 
the  death  of  all  her  hopes,  of  all  her  hold  on  life.  Beyond, 
there  seemed  nothing  to  her  but  the  gray,  forbidding  light, 
as  when  the  morning  had  broken  after  the  night  when  she 
had  first  left  her  husband. 

"  You  must  be  fearfully  cold,"  he  said ;  and  he  took 
her  arm  in  such  a  way  that  she  could  not  deny  him. 
"  We'll  get  the  tea  right  away." 

He  brought  her  back  to  the  hotel,  and  there  in  the 
coffee-room,  before  a  blazing  fire,  where  big  logs  of  wood 
were  burning  with  an  aromatic  scent,  they  had  their  tea 
served. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  think  of  Hitchin  ?  "  he  asked,  rub- 
bing his  hands  at  the  blaze  and  all  the  time  watching  her 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea. 

""Pis  a  nice  little  place,"  she  said.  "I  was  looking 
at  the  market  for  some  time.  Do  you  know  what  it  re- 
minded me  of  ?  " 


TRAFFIC.  243 

"No." 

"  The  Pattern  in  Rathmore." 

"  Ah — by  Jove,  yes — the  Pattern.  Do  you  remember 
that  evening  when  you  talked  to  me  about  saints  ?  " 

She  nooded  her  head  seriously. 

"  I've  often  sat  up  alone  in  chambers  and  thought  about 
you  that  night.  And  d'you  remember  when  I  brought 
you  back  to  Troy's  Lane ?  " 

"  We  stood  at  the  gate." 

"  Yes — and  then,  when  we  heard  some  one  laughing 
inside  in  the  cottage,  I  asked  you  if  that  was  why 'you 
hadn't  liked  to  go  home." 

"I  remember." 

"  And  you  didn't  answer :  you  simply  said — good-night." 

"  Did  I  ?  " 

"Yes — that's  what  you  said,  and  then  you  went  across 
the  yard  into  the  kitchen.  But  I  still  stayed  at  the  gate." 

"  Oh— Mr.  Jerningham  !  " 

"  I  saw  you  open  the  door — I  heard  the  laughter  and 
singing  again,  and  I  saw  a  crowd  of  men  who,  from  the 
look  of  them,  had  been  drinking;  and  that  was  why  you 
hadn't  liked  to  go  home — wasn't  it  ?  " 

For  a  mere  moment  she  tried  to  look  into  his  face.  The 
thought  that  even  then,  when  they  had  been  acquainted 
for  so  short  a  time,  he  had  watched  over  her  and  under- 
stood her,  filled  her  with  a  gratitude  which  in  that  one 
moment  glittered  like  a  luster  in  her  eyes.  The  next 
moment  the  luster  was  dissolved ;  her  eyes  filed  with  tears. 
If  he  understood  her  then,  how  much  more  did  he  not 
understand  her  now;  and  now,  she  was  to  sacrifice  him  to 
the  inviolable  law.  The  great  God  of  Fate  was  calling 
upon  her  to  pay  her  price  and,  with  the  price  in  her  hand, 
she  stood  at  the  counter  of  life  broken  with  her  misery, 
shaken  with  her  sobs. 


244  TRAFFIC. 

For  that  brief  moment  when  she  had  looked  at  him 
with  gratitude  in  her  eyes,  she  had  known  that  her  time 
of  payment  was  due,  if  not  overdue,  and  she  tried  to  face 
it  with  a  brave  heart  and  unshaking  lips.  The  effort  had 
been  genuine,  but  it  had  failed.  Her  lips  quivered,  her 
eyes  filled,  and  then,  with  shoulders  racked  by  her  sobbing, 
she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried  as  though  endur- 
ance could  endure  no  more. 

At  first  he  was  amazed.  He  had  not  followed  her  train 
of  thought;  he  could  not  see  the  reason  for  this  sudden 
outburst  of  weeping.  But  that  did  not  alter  the  effect 
it  made  upon  him.  A  man  believes  that  he  understands 
a  woman  better  when  first  he  sees  her  tears;  in  fact,  to 
Jerningham,  this  was  the  one  moment  of  intimacy  needed 
to  blow  the  spark  of  his  passion  into  a  devouring  flame. 
As  he  saw  her  there  with  bowed  head,  and  tears  streaming 
through  the  fingers  that  covered  her  face,  he  knew  that 
she  was  more  to  him  than  anything  he  had  yet  known — 
the  essential  need,  the  essential  influence  in  his  life. 

"  Nanno ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  his  arms  held  her. 
"  Don't  cry,  Nanno !  What  is  there  to  cry  about  ?  I've 
guessed  all  along  that  your  life  hasn't  been  particularly 
happy — but  it's  going  to  be  happy  now." 

It  would  not  have  entered  his  head  that  it  was  because 
of  the  possibility  of  this  that  she  was  crying. 

"  It's  going  to  be  happy  now,"  he  repeated. 

She  looked  up  at  him  regardless  of  her  appearance. 
There  were  pools  of  salt  tears  in  the  corners  of  her  eyes, 
just  ready  to  tumble  down  her  cheeks  in  heavy  drops.  She 
looked  the  essence  of  her  own  misery. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  that  ?  "  she  asked,  with  shaking 
yoice. 

"  I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  make  your  life  happy  for 
you;  I'm  going  to  take  you  out  of  those  lonely  rooms  of 


TRAFFIC.  245 

yours ;  I'm  going  to  marry  you — if  you'll  let  mo.  Nanno, 
I  Idve  you;  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

"  Glory  be  to  God ! "  she  exclaimed  hoarsely,  and  then 
her  sobbing  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  speak.  She 
covered  her  face  once  more.  She  did  not  want  him  to 
look  at  her  then.  She  knew  that  crying  made  her  ugly, 
but  he  was  not  aware  of  it.  The  quaint  contortion  of  her 
lips  only  made  him  love  her  the  more. 

"  Wouldn't  you  be  happ}7,  then,  Xanno  ? "  he  said 
softly,  putting  his  head  close  to  hers.  "  Wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Oh — I  would — I  would — I  know  I  would !  "  she 
moaned. 

He  stood  up  with  the  look  of  conquest  in  his  face.  He 
stretched  his  arms  above  his  head  with  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  possession,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  grasp  all 
that  he  believed  he  had  gainad. 

"  You  love  me,  then,  Xanno  ?  "  he  asked,  bending  over 
her. 

She  stood  up  suddenly  and  faced  him,  the  knowledge  of 
the  inevitable  driving  the  tears  away  before  it. 

"  Yes — I  love  you,"  she  said  tensely,  "  I  love  you  with 
every  breath  that  comes  out  o'  me — but  I  can't  marry  you 
-I  can't— I  can't." 

He  fell  from  the  altitude  of  his  sense  of  conquest. 
It  was  the  falling  of  a  tower,  like  an  old  man  dropping 
with  fatigue.  His  arms  hung  motionless  at  his  sides. 
His  eyes  looked  at  her  without  understanding. 

"You  can't?"  he  repeated.  "You  can't?— why  can't 
you?" 

His  mind  was  inert.  He  struggled  to  grasp  the  mean- 
ing to  what  she  said.  He  hunted  for  her  reasons  in  his 
thoughts  as  a  blind  man  fights  with  the  darkness  to  find 
his  way.  She  had  not  said  it  petulantly,  as  a  woman  who 
dallies  with  her  prize  and  loves  to  play  it  with  unyielding 


246  TRAFFIC. 

line.  She  had  meant  what  she  said.  He  realized  that 
in  the  passion  of  her  words.  The  thought  that  he  had 
lost  her  at  the  very  moment  when  he  believed  that  she  was 
found  was  like  a  blow  across  his  eyes.  He  could  see  noth- 
ing but  sudden  flashes  of  reason  that  had  no  meaning  in 
them.  Then,  with  all  its  power,  he  understood  his  love 
for  her. 

"  Why  can't  you  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  'Tis  the  way  I — I — I'm  married  already." 

Once  she  had  said  it,  her  courage  fell  like  a  pack  of 
cards.  She  sank  back  into  her  chair.  He  knew  it  now. 
Nothing  could  take  back  the  words.  He  knew  it.  She 
might  cry  to  him  now  that  her  words  were  a  lie — it  would 
remain  the  same.  He  knew  it.  At  the  bottom  of  her 
heart  she  was  not  sorry.  It  seemed  as  though  she  had 
humiliated  herself  to  the  rack  of  confession,  and  with  the 
reaction  she  felt  a  deep  conviction  of  content.  She  had 
put  herself  beyond  temptation.  He  would  hate  her  now, 
and  with  closed  eyes  she  waited  for  the  first  torrent  of  his 
words. 

But  no  torrent  came.  For  a  time  he  could  only  stand 
and  gaze  at  her  sitting  there,  as  though  some  blow  had 
staggered  him,  and  he  were  gathering  his  senses  for  a  fresh 
onslaught. 

Once  or  twice  he  put  his  hand  up  to  his  eyes.  Once  or 
twice  he  half  turned,  as  though  to  leave  her.  At  last  he 
spoke;  his  voice  had  lost  its  vitality.  In  one  moment  it 
had  aged. 

"  Why  haven't  I  been  told ! "  he  asked.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  lodged  the  complaint  against  every  one.  He 
did  not  throw  the  blame  on  her  alone.  "  Why  haven't  I  ?  " 
he  repeated. 

She  stared  into  the  fire.  The  big  logs  of  wood  burned 
just  as  brightly  as  before,  She  looked  round  the  room; 


TRAFFIC. 

nothing  had  altered.  Yet  within  the  last  five  minutes 
everything  as  she  saw  it  had  changed.  The  cheerful 
flames  from  the  fire  were  laughing  spitefully ;  the  comfort- 
able coffee-room  had  become  gaunt  and  gray  with  the 
spirit  of  her  own  misery. 

"  Why  haven't  I  been  told  ?  "  he  repeated  once  more. 

"  Oh — shure,  I  never  knew,"  she  said.  "  How  could  I 
know  that  ye'd  come  to  care  for  any  one  like  me  ?  Shure, 
I'm  only  waiting  in  a  restaurant — I've  been  a  servant 
waiting  at  a  table  on  ye-nhow  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  Haven't  I  shown  you  at  all  ?  Didn't  I  ask  you  up  to 
chambers  ?  Haven't  I  been  to  see  you  in  your  own  rooms  ? 
Didn't  I  take  an  interest  in  you  in  Ireland  ?  " 

All  these  different  things  he  cited  bitterly,  at  last  real- 
izing they  had  been  the  steps  towards  the  passion  that 
now  was  consuming  him.  It  seemed,  when  he  thought  of 
it,  that  she  must  all  the  time  have  seen  them  in  that 
light. 

"Didn't  I  come  and  look  you  up  directly  I'd  seen 
you  in  London,  and  haven't  I  shown  you  in  a  hundred 
different  little  ways  ?  " 

If  she  had  only  realized  this  at  the  first,  how  willingly 
would  she  not  have  told  him  everything  that  very  day 
when  he  had  come  to  Maynard's  to  see  her!  How  will- 
ingly she  would  have  sacrificed  all  the  pleasure  of  his 
companionship  to  save  him  the  pain  that  now  she  knew 
he  felt.  But  it  was  too  late.  This  was  one  of  the  posi- 
tions in  the  game  of  life  that  always  come  unexpectedly. 
She  could  do  nothing  to  save  it  now. 

"  Why  don't  you  answer  me  ?  "  he  persisted.  "  Haven't 
I  deserved  that  much  generosity  from  you  ?  " 

"With  that  word — "  generosity  " — she  was  stung  to  de- 
fend herself  in  his  eyes.  She  could  not  let  him  continue 
to  think  that  of  her, 


248  TRAFFIC. 

"  Oh — don't  think  that,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  she  pleaded. 
"  'Twas  not  because  I  didn't  think  generously  of  ye — 
'twas  not,  indeed  'twas  not.  If  I'd  ever  dreamed  it  was 
going  to  come  to  this,  I'd  have  told  ye  when  first  ye  came 
to  see  me  at  Maynard's;  but  how  could  I  know  that  ye'd 
ever  think  like  this  of  me? — only  a  farmer's  daughter  in 
Eathmore — and  ye,  in  society  here  in  London." 

When  she  mentioned  that  word — "  society  " — he  laughed 
— shortly,  sharply,  bitterly. 

"  Well,  then,  we  were  friends  only — if  you  like. 
Couldn't  you  have  told  me  in  the  common  cause  of  friend- 
ship?" 

She  hung  her  head.  Now  he  had  reached  the  core  of 
her  weakness,  now  she  was  to  expose  herself  to  him  in  all 
the  poorness  of  her  mind.  But  she  did  not  flinch  from 
it. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  lose  yeer  friendship,"  she  said  in- 
nocently. "  I  thought  if  I  told  ye,  ye'd  go  away  from  me, 
and  'twas  the  way  I  felt  so  lonely  in  London.  It  was  like 
being  at  home  to  see  ye." 

That  touched  the  bigness  of  his  heart.  He  stretched 
out  and  clutched  her  hand. 

"  My  God ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  quiet  intensity,  "  what 
a  fiasco  the  whole  thing  is !  Here  am  I,  just  thirty-five, 
having  taken  all  these  years  to  realize  what  it  means  to 
be  in  love,  and  then  discover  that  I've  learned  my  lesson 
from  a  married  woman  who  can  give  me  nothing  in  re- 
turn. God !  what  a  fiasco !  " 

Xanno  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  could  say  noth- 
ing; she  could  plead  for  nothing.  Through  her  fault  the 
man  she  loved  was  to  suffer,  when  by  every  right  he  de- 
served the  happiness  that  circumstance  forfeited  from  her. 

"But  tell  me,"  he  went  on.  "  Where's  your  husband? 
Where  were  you  married?  When?  Why  aren't  you  liv- 


TRAFFIC.  249 

ing  with  him  now  ?  "  He  poured  out  the  questions  from 
the  bitter  desire  to  know  everything,  as  one  spills  away  the 
surface  liquid  from  a  tankard  overfull. 

Then  she  told  him  the  whole  story,  from  the  moment 
when  he  had  left  her  that  night  in  Anesk.  Every  word 
of  it  was  guarded  by  a  gentle  reticence,  by  which,  un- 
consciously, she  only  added  to  the  tragedy  it  contained. 
She  offered  no  judgment  upon  her  husband.  She  did  not 
hasten  to  qualify  her  reasons  for  leaving  him.  Xothing 
in  the  telling  was  exaggerated;  it  was  just  the  plain  and 
simple  story  of  a  miserable  life — misery  such  as  Jerning- 
ham  could  not  credit  to  have  entered  Nanno's  knowledge. 
Putting  short  questions  here  and  there,  where  he  did  not 
fully  understand,  he  listened  to  it  all  in  dazed  bewilder- 
ment and  compassion.  Sometimes  he  emitted  exclama- 
tions of  pity,  sometimes  of  incredulous  revolt;  and  when 
she  reached  the  climax — her  leaving  Jamesy  on  that  night 
of  the  threshing — he  looked  at  her,  amazed  to  think  what 
agony  of  soul  she  had  been  through,  astounded  at  the 
powers  of  her  endurance  and  recuperation. 

"  We'll  be  late  for  the  last  train,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  she 
said  quietly,  when  she  had  finished.  A  clock  on  the  wall 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room  pointed  to  a  quarter  of  the 
hour  before  seven. 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  obeying  her  suggestion  in- 
stinctively, yet  with  his  mind  churning  the  thoughts  of 
all  he  had  just  heard.  One  idea  was  gradually  taking 
shape  in  his  view  of  the  whole  matter.  She  was  not 
utterly  beyond  his  reach.  There  was  still  an  arm  which, 
outstretched,  could  reach  her — the  far-grasping  arm  of  the 
law.  There  was  sufficient  evidence,  there  was  sufficient 
cause,  to  enable  her  to  obtain  a  divorce.  Unfaithfulness 
and  cruelty — -nothing  more  was  needed.  A  decree  ni^i 
would  be  granted  for  that,  and  then  she  would  be  his. 


250  TRAFFIC. 

She  loved  him;  she  had  admitted  it.  The  whole  outlook 
seemed  to  brighten  as  the  plausibility  of  it  became  clearer 
to  his  mind,  but,  until  they  were  once  more  seated  in  a 
carriage  of  the  train,  where  there  was  no  likelihood  of  in- 
trusion, he  said  nothing. 

Time  seemed  interminable  before  the  guard  blew  his 
whistle ;  but  at  length  they  felt  the  vibration  of  the  engine 
and  the  train  moved  out  of  the  brightness  of  the  station 
into  the  dark  country  beyond.  Then  Jerningham  leaned 
forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 

"  Nanno,"  he  said,  with  quiet  conviction,  "  you're  going 
to  marry  me." 

She  gazed  at  him  pitifully,  as  though  it  were  a  sorry  jest 
to  her. 

"You're  going  to  marry  me,"  he  repeated. 

"  If  Jamesy  were  to  die  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Ah,  shure, 
you  couldn't  wait  on  for  the  hope  of  that.  There  are 
other  women  in  the  world  beside  me,  Mr.  Jerningham; 
better  women — women  that  are  better  educated  than  what 
I  am.  I  beg  you  not  to  spoil  your  life  by  thinking  any 
more  about  me.  I'm  not  good  enough  for  it."  Her  lips 
quivered  as  she  made  this  voluntary  renunciation.  She 
felt  the  saying  of  it  as  though  it  were  the  approaching  act 
itself. 

"  There's  no  need  to  wait  until  he  dies,"  he  said,  tri- 
umphant with  the  belief  in  his  own  mind. 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"You're  going  to  divorce  him.  He's  been  unfaithful 
to  you — you  have  witnesses  and  evidence  of  that.  He 
has  beaten  you  shamefully — you  have  witnesses  and  evi- 
dence of  that.  These  two  things  are  quite  sufficient  to  get 
a  divorce." 

She  listened  to  him  with  a  fear  that  numbed  her  senses. 
Here  were  the  words  of  Father  Mehan  come  to  actual 


TRAFFIC.  251 

truth.  To  her  mind,  it  was  as  though  he  had  prophesied 
this  very  incident  and,  filled  with  susceptibilities  that  al- 
most amounted  to  superstition,  she  felt  that  she  was 
trapped  already.  In  her  vivid  imagination  she  saw  the 
doors  of  the  Church  slowly  swinging  to  upon  her  helpless 
body. 

"  There  is  no  divorce  in  our  Church,"  she  said,  with  a 
dull  voice. 

He  sat  up  in  his  surprise.  "But  surely  there  must  be 
some  way  out  of  a  ghastly  situation  like  this.  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me ?" 

"  There  is  no  divorce  in  our  Church,"  she  repeated,  and 
behind  that  sentence  with  its  hopeless  brevity  she  crouched 
— a  whipped  animal  cowering  to  the  hand  that  beats  it. 

"But  surely,"  he  persisted,  the  instinct  of  a  British 
law-giver  standing  like  a  giant  in  the  path  of  his  under- 
standing, "surely  the  tie  of  marriage  is  broken  by  such  a 
man  as  E}Tan !  He's  not  your  husband  any  longer — he's 
discarded  you.  The  law  of  England,  of  which  you're  a 
subject,  gives  you  release  from  su^ch  a  man." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  any  more,  Mr.  Jerningham !  "  she  said 
once  more.  "  I  tell  ye  there  is  no  divorce  in  our  Church." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

SEVEN  long  days  with  long,  sleepless  nights  passed  by 
after  Jerningham's  parting  with  Nanno  that  evening,  be- 
fore she  saw  him  again.  She  did  her  work  in  the  restau- 
rant as  though  driven  by  a  power  outside  her  comprehen- 
sion; her  actions  became  those  of  a  machine — painful, 
unconscious  in  their  accuracy. 

As  one  day  succeeded  another,  the  belief  sank  deeper 
into  her  consciousness  that  Jerningham  had  exhausted 
every  feeling  for  her,  even  that  of  the  slightest  interest. 
In  imagination,  she  saw  herself  in  his  mind  a  withered, 
hollow  resemblance  of  something  that  had  scarcely  been 
worth  while.  She  felt  the  cold  pass  through  her  like 
the  current  of  a  stream  when  she  thought  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  life  that  lay  before  her.  Yet,  still,  methodically, 
persistently,  she  continued  with  her  duties,  arriving  at 
Maynard's  as  though  the  hands  of  the  clock  were  leading 
her;  winding  herself  up  for  the  day's  work  before  her, 
then  slowly  using  out  her  energies  until,  by  the  time  that 
she  returned  to  the  Fulham  Road,  she  was  swaying  be- 
tween a  balance  of  exhaustion  and  relief. 

One  evening,  Miss  Shand  took  it  upon  herself  to  ac- 
company her  for  part  of  the  way  back  to  her  lodging?. 
Jevningham's  words  to  her  that  night  still  had  their 
echoes;  they  had  just  succeeded  in  hurting  a  sensitive  side 
of  her  nature,  and  she  could  not  forget  them.  On  this 
particular  evening  they  stirred  her  to  a  generous  impulse. 

252 


TRAFFIC.  253 

"I've  been  wanting  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said, 
as  they  picked  their  way  between  the  puddles,  "  since  that 
night  when  he  went  back  home  with  me."  She  left  it  to 
be  tacitl}'  understood  to  whom  she  alluded. 

"  Did  he  go  home  with  you  ? "  Xanno  asked  appre- 
hensively. 

"  Well — he  didn't  come  in,  of  course — why  I'd  only  met 
him  that  evening.  But  this  was  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  dear,  because,  if  you  remember,  you  said  he  was  only 
a  friend." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Well — just  say  you  remember,  because  it  spoils  it  all 
if  you  don't." 

"  I  do — I  do  remember." 

"  Well,  dear — you're  making  a  great  mistake,"  said  Miss 
Shand,  with  a  sense  of  the  dramatic.  "  He's  in  love  with 
you;  in  fact,  though  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  be  sayin'  it, 
he  as  good  as  told  me  so.  What  I  mean,  he  gave  the  show 
away." 

She  was  watching  Xanno,  expecting  to  see  wonderful 
results  from  the  effect  of  her  information.  She  saw  none. 
Xanno's  face  was  expressionless.  A  stone-mason,  with 
rough  chisel  and  heavy  hand,  could  have  hewn  more  life 
out  of  a  piece  of  granite.  Miss  Shand's  generosity  was 
fruitless,  and  she  felt  disappointed. 

"I  think  you  might  thank  me  for  finding  out  that 
much  for  you,"  she  said.  "  It'll  help  you  knowing  what 
to  do  with  him  next  time." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  kind  of  you,"  said  Xanno  unemotionally- 

Miss  Shand,  in  her  chagrin,  almost  stamped  her  foot. 
She  felt  that  she  had  been  generous  and,  fully  expecting 
reward,  had  received  none. 

"  Poor  sort  of  thanks  I  call  that/"  she  said  petulantly ; 
and  she  stopped. 


254  TRAFFIC. 

Nanno  turned  round.  "  Are  you  going  ?  "  she  asked, 
in  the  same  tone  of  voice. 

"  Yes — that's  just  what  I  am  going  to  do ! "  she  ex- 
claimed; and  hailing  a  'bus  that  passed  she  left  Nanno 
standing  on  the  pavement. 

This  little  incident  had  occurred  five  days  after  the 
journey  into  Hertfordshire.  Two  more  days  still  went  by 
under  the  same  conditions  of  loneliness  and,  as  with  the 
days,  so  with  the  week  itself;  her  energies  slowly  became 
exhausted  with  each  succeeding  day  as  a  clock  that  is  run 
down,  until  by  the  time  that  Saturday  came  round  she 
found  it  impossible  to  walk  back  to  her  rooms  in  the  Ful- 
ham  Eoad,  and  was  compelled  to  resort  to  an  extravagance 
that  she  never  permitted  herself  to  take.  She  got  into  a 
'bus  that  would  pass  her  door  and,  when  she  alighted,  it 
seemed  an  effort  to  cross  the  road. 

Mrs.  Hudson,  after  a  considerable  period,  had  placed 
sufficient  confidence  in  her  as  to  bestow  upon  her  the 
honor  of  a  latch-key — an  unwieldy  piece  of  metal  that 
weighed  down  heavily  in  her  pocket,  and  constantly  wore 
holes  in  the  lining.  With  this  she  let  herself  in,  and 
walked  straight  upstairs  to  the  sitting-room  into  which 
her  bedroom  opened.  She  did  not  notice  a  letter,  ad- 
dressed to  her,  that  lay  on  the  rickety  table  in  the  hall. 
The  hall,  Mrs.  Hudson  called  it — the  passage,  said  Miss 
Shand  whenever  she  came. 

Unprepared,  unexpectant,  she  walked  abruptly  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  when  she  saw  Jerningham  seated  in  the 
horsehair  arm-chair,  an  involuntary  cry  forced  its  way 
through  her  lips — she  was  too  weak  to  repress  it. 

"  Why  have  you  come  ?  "  she  asked,  still  standing  at  the 
door. 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  at  the  same  time  taking  out  of  his 


TRAFFIC.  255 

pocket  a  bundle  of  papers  which  he  laid  emphatically  on 
the  table. 

"  That's  why  I've  come/'  he  said,  pointing  to  them 
with  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "  Oh — by  the  way,  I  wrote 
you  a  letter  telling  you  I  was  coming.  I  saw  it  down  in 
the  hall  as  I  came  up." 

She  remained  holding  on  to  the  door,  her  face  white, 
her  lips  that  were  deep  red,  almost  bloodless. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  said,  as  he  suddenly  realized  her 
condition.  "  You  look  awfully  bad — what's  the  matter  ?  " 

She  came  slowly  into  the  room,  laying  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  the  first  chair  that  came  within  her  reach. 

"  We've  been  working  rather  hard  this  week,"  she  ex- 
plained. "  I  only  feel  tired." 

"  Come  and  sit  in  this  arm-chair,  then."  He  led  her 
round  to  the  seat  he  had  just  vacated,  and  placed  her 
there.  "  Why  isn't  this  fire  lighting  ? "  he  went  on. 
"You're  as  cold  as  a  shroud.  Why  isn't  it  lighting?" 

Her  eyes  rose  to  his  for  one  moment,  smiling  gently, 
as  though  he  had  asked  the  question  in  fun. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  be  extravagant,"  she  said.  There 
was  no  complaint  in  her  voice. 

Jerningham  strode  across  the  room  to  a  bell-handle, 
which  hung  loosely  in  the  plaster  of  the  wall.  He  pulled 
it  with  a  jerk,  and  some  of  the  plaster  fell  with  a  white 
dust  to  the  floor. 

"  What's  this  fat  woman's  name  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Hudson.     Why — what  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Order  a  fire.     This  is  not  the  way  for  you  to  live." 

The  landlady  entered  the  room,  having  discreetly 
knocked. 

"We  want  a  fire,  Mrs.  Hudson,"  he  said.  "Will  it 
take  you  long  to  light  it  ?  " 


256  TRAFFIC. 

The  suggestion  thai  her  actions  were  ponderous  and  slow 
offended  her  somewhat. 

"  'Twon't  take  no  longer  than  gettin'  the  sticks  and  the 
paper,  I  suppose.  There's  coals  in  the  hox." 

"  Thanks,"  he  replied  genially.  "  Well — will  you  get 
it  at  once." 

Her  small  eyes  looked  him  up  and  down.  She  ob- 
jected to  the  sound  of  proprietorship  in  his  voice.  Still, 
a  fire  had  been  ordered,  and  that  meant  sixpence.  She 
came  to  the  inevitable  conclusion  that  obedience  was  bet- 
ter than  sacrifice,  and  departed. 

Jerningham  turned  back  to  Xanno. 

"  Now/'  he  said,  "  as  soon  as  the  fire's  lit  and  I've 
settled  you  comfortably — I  want  to  go  into  this  matter 
here."  He  laid  his  hand  again  upon  the  papers. 

Nanno  looked  at  them  with  curiosity.  It  did  not  enter 
her  head  what  they  contained.  Then,  curbing  her  im- 
patience to  know  their  meaning,  which  she  realized  must 
in  some  way  be  the  object  of  his  visit,  she  went  into  her 
room,  making  the  excuse  that  she  wished  to  remove  her 
coat  and  hat.  As  soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door  she 
crossed  to  the  bed  over  which  hung  the  gaudy  picture  of 
the  Sacred  Heart,  and  before  that  she  knelt,  with  clasped 
hands  whose  sense  of  touch  had  been  driven  from  them 
with  the  cold. 

"  0  Sacred  Heart  of  Jesus,"  she  whispered — "  if  'twas 
the  way  I  was  going  to  die  now,  be  with  me  and  help  me 
if  he  asks  me  to  marry  him  again.  I'm  afraid  he  will, 
and  I'm  afraid  of  myself,  because  I  love  him.  0  Sacred 
Heart  of  Jesus  " — she  tried  to  say  more,  but  what  she  had 
already  prayed  contained  all  her  fears;  fears  that  she  felt 
weak  and  incompetent  to  battle  with.  Then  she  rose  to 
her  feet,  took  off  her  coat  and  hat,  and  came  back  into  the 
sitting-room. 


TRAFFIC.  257 

By  that  time  the  fire  had  been  lighted.  Obeying  Jer- 
ningham's  suggestions,  without  knowing  why,  Mrs.  Hud- 
son had  gone  to  the  extremity  of  using  a  candle-end  to 
hasten  matters,  and  now  it  was  burning  brightly,  the 
grease  spitting  and  crackling  like  fat  in  a  frying-pan. 

Nanno  seated  herself  in  the  horsehair  arm-chair  and, 
behind  her  back,  Jerningham  placed  a  cushion  bearing 
some  floral  design  in  many-colored  wools,  which  a  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Hudson's  had  made  during  an  attack  of  measles. 

"  Is  that  comfortable  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nooded  her  head,  smiling:  the  sensation  of  being 
taken  care  of  was  luxurious  after  the  week  of  servitude. 

"You'll  be  much  warmer  presently,"  he  went  on;  then, 
drawing  up  a  chair  where  he  could  watch  her  face,  he 
reached  for  the  papers  that  were  still  lying  on  the  table 
and  began  to  undo  the  little  piece  of  tape  that  held  them 
together. 

"I  expect  you're  wondering  what  on  earth  I've  got 
here  ?  "  he  said. 

«  Yes— I  am." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I've  been  spending  all  my  spare 
time  during  the  last  week  with  solicitors." 

"  Solicitors  ? "  The  name  brought  back  to  ISFanno's 
memory  the  one  solicitor  with  whom  she  had  ever  had 
any  dealings — Mr.  Donegan,  in  Anesk.  As  though  a 
magician  had  passed  his  wand  over  a  black  mirror,  she  saw 
in  her  mind  the  reflection  of  that  untidy  office  where  the 
deeds  of  settlement  of  her  marriage  had  been  signed.  She 
heard  the  little  man's  stuttering  voice;  she  heard  her 
mother  wrangling  with  Jamesy  over  the  amount  of  the 
dowry.  It  was  quite  natural  that  she  should  at  once  con- 
nect the  word  with  the  event  of  marriage;  and,  moreover, 
her  instinct  was  perfectly  right  when  she  presumed  that  it 
was  for  this  very  reason  that  Jerningham  had  been  to  see 
17 


258  TRAFFIC. 

them.  Involuntarily  she  shrank  back  in  her  chair,  because 
she  knew  that  temptation  was  about  to  assail  her  again. 

"  Yes — solicitors,"  he  went  on — "  hard-headed,  hard- 
hearted City  solicitors,  who  wipe  off  sentiment  from  the 
soles  of  their  feet  when  they  enter  their  own  offices." 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  apprehensively.  She  dreaded  to  hear 
what  he  had  done. 

"  Well — you  say  that  there  is  no  divorce  in  your  Church, 
but  what  you  ought  to  say  is  that  your  Church  doesn't 
recognize  divorce.  You've  got  to  remember  that  it's  not 
the  Church  that  grants  divorce  in  the  first  instance;  it's 
the  law.  Now  you  come  under  the  laws  of  England,  and 
amongst  them  is  the  law  of  divorce.  Your  Church  may 
not  recognize  it,  but  there  it  is ;  and  when  you  are  divorced 
you  can  marry  again,  no  penalty  attaching  itself  to  you, 
no  sin  being  committed.  The  number  of  people  who  do  it 
are  as  many  as  flies  in  June."  He  spoke  as  though  he 
were  a  solicitor  himself,  so  deeply  had  he  been  immersed 
in  their  opinions  during  the  last  seven  days. 

"But  you  don't  understand,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  she 
began,  and  her  voice  was  tired  even  then,  at  the  beginning. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  interrupted — "  I  understand 
everything.  I've  made  it  my  duty  to  understand.  With- 
out mentioning  any  names  I've  put  your  case  before  two  or 
three  solicitors  and  have  got  here  their  advice  in  writing, 
with  quotations  from  other  cases  that  have  occurred  in  the 
courts.  You  can  divorce  this  husband  of  yours.  I  can 
quite  understand  that  the  people  amongst  whom  you  have 
been  living  have  never  had  the  means  to  set  you  the  ex- 
ample, and  so  you  have  come  to  think  it  impossible.  But 
it's  not  impossible.  It'll  cost  a  good  deal  of  money,  per- 
haps, because  I  think  your  husband  has  to  be  resident  here 
as  well  as  you,  just  for  a  certain  time.  It'll  cost  money  to 
collect  the  witnesses;  but  all  that  expense  I'm  ready  to 


TRAFFIC.  259 

defray.  You  are  bound  to  win  the  case,  so  that  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  they  will  be  lessened;  but  whatever  they  are — 
I  don't  care."  He  left  his  chair  impulsively  and  knelt 
down  beside  her.  "  I'm  going  to  marry  you,  Xanno,"  he 
said  intensely.  "  Nothing's  going  to  be  put  in  my  way. 
You  love  me — you've  admitted  it.  I  know  that  as  far  as 
that  goes  you'd  marry  me  to-day — wouldn't  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  read  her  silence  as  consent. 

"  Well — the  other  thing — the  other  objection,  you're 
going  to  leave  that  to  me  to  overcome.  Nanno  " — he  took 
her  face  in  his  hands — "  I've  been  living  the  life  of  the 
ordinary  man — no  worse,  no  better;  and  there  comes  a 
time  when,  if  he's  ever  going  to  shake  it  off  him,  a  man 
must  chuck  it  up  and  take  into  his  own  life  the  life  and 
heart  of  a  woman  who  directs  all  his  intentions  and  brings 
the  best  out  of  him.  I  didn't  know  there  was  such  a 
woman  till  I  met  you."  He  let  her  free,  but  only  to  im- 
prison her  numbed  hands  in  his.  "  And  do  you  know,"  he 
went  on,  "  already  you've  saved  me  from  one  piece  of 
folly."  He  told  her  the  incident  with  Miss  Shand,  and 
while  he  told  it  he  held  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"For  the  sake  of  that  alone,"  he  continued,  when  the 
incident  was  told,  "  do  you  think  I'm  going  to  let  you  go  ? 
And  then  I  love  you,  apart  from  all  that.  I  can  make  you 
happy — I  can  make  you  comfortable.  The  whole  of  your 
life  I  can  reconstruct." 

The  tears  were  hurrying  down  her  cheeks.  For  her  sake, 
and  because  of  her,  he  had  resisted  temptation,  when  she 
had  no  claim  upon  him  whatsoever.  She  could  not  for  one 
moment  have  blamed  him  had  he  given  way;  but  because 
he  had  resisted,  her  love  for  him  amounted  almost  to  adora- 
tion. To  think  that  she  was  an  influence  for  good  in  his 
life,  this  was  surely  the  hardest  form  of  temptation  to  re- 
sist. To  be  an  influence  upon  the  actions  of  a  man,  this 


260  TRAFFIC. 

s- 

is  the  zenith  of  a  woman's  desires.  Watch  them — you  will 
see  that  it  may  be  for  good  or  it  may  be  for  bad ;  if  not  the 
former,  then  she  may  resort  to  the  latter ;  but  an  influence 
she  must  be  at  all  costs.  And  when  she  learned  that  she 
possessed  that  power  over  Jerningham,  ISTanno  was  at  the 
nearest  point  to  giving  way.  It  was  when  he  returned  to 
the  argument  of  paying  every  expense,  which  to  him 
seemed  irresistible,  that  her  slender  courage  returned,  and 
with  clasped  hands  and  cold  lips  she  told  him  of  its  im- 
possibility. 

"  If  I  were  to  be  divorced  and  to  marry  again,"  she  said 
expressionlessly,  "  the  Church  would  close  its  doors  against 
me — I  should  be  excommunicated." 

Bitter  words,  revolting  against  such  a  law,  rose  up  to  his 
tongue,  but  for  her  sake  he  kept  them  back.  It  would  have 
been  impossible  with  the  logic  of  his  faith  for  him  to  rec- 
oncile his  mind  to  such  drastic  punishment.  Such  a  law, 
he  told  himself,  as  she  declared  it,  was  unchristian  to  the 
very  heart  of  it.  Such  a  law  did  not  uphold  the  forgive- 
ness of  sins,  but  the  eternal  damnation  of  them.  To  him, 
it  was  as  though  the  hands  of  man,  stained  with  sin — even 
were  it  only  that  of  origin — had  closed  the  gates  of  Heaven 
in  the  face  of  God.  He  could  not  see  it  from  her  point  of 
view  and,  because  it  affected  him  no  less  than  it  did  Xanno, 
he  railed  against  it  in  his  mind. 

"  Well,  then,  be  excommunicated ! "  he  exclaimed  at 
last.  The  words  were  driven  from  him.  He  was  an  Eng- 
lishman, and  common  law  was  impregnated  in  his  blood. 
"  Be  excommunicated !  "  he  repeated ;  "  that  doesn't  de- 
prive you  of  your  belief  in  the  goodness  of  God — that 
doesn't  rob  you  of  your  faith  in  Christ — that  doesn't  spoil 
you  of  your  love  of  the  Virgin  Mary — be  excommunicated, 
and  God  will  give  you  to  me  to  take  care  of !  " 

She  rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 


TRAFFIC.  261 

"You  must  go,"  she  said  feverishly — "you  mustn't 
say  anything  more.  I  love  you — and  I  can't  bear  to  listen. 
You  don't  know  what  you're  saying.  You're  not  a  Catho- 
lic— you  haven't  been  brought  up  as  I  have,  or  you  couldn't 
say  what  you  are  saying.  \Vho  am  I  that  I  should  dare  to 
leave  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  that's  going  on  and  on 
with  the  millions  of  people  that  follow  it,  years  after  I'm 
dead  and  buried?  I'm  nothing — simply  a  little  speck. 
Those  who've  made  that  law " 

"  The  men  who've  made  it/'  Jerningham  bitterly  inter- 
posed. She  took  no  notice. 

"  Those  who've  made  that  law,"  she  repeated,  "  have 
known  far  better  than  I  do  what's  best  for  me.  What  right 
have  I  to  question  what  they've  done  ?  I  can  only  obey  or 
disobey,  and  oh — 3Ir.  Jerningham — if  I  disobeyed,  and 
the  Church  closed  its  doors  on  me  " — she  invariably  made 
use  of  the  simile  that  Father  Mehan  had  given  her — "I 
couldn't  go  on  living — I  could  not." 

Jerningham  laid  his  hands  gently  on  her  shoulders. 
Either  the  unquenchable  belief  of  the  man  in  himself,  or 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  overwrought,  and  could  not 
consider  the  matter  calmly,  made  him  think  that  she  did 
not  thoroughly  mean  what  she  said. 

"  You're  not  in  a  fit  state  to  talk  about  it  now,"  he  said 
softly ;  "  I'm  going  to  leave  you  by  yourself.  But  in  a  few 
days  I  shall  come  back  again — when  you've  thought  it  all 
over;  and  then — you'll  tell  me." 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  curbing  his  passionate  desire  to 
kiss  her  lips ;  and  then  he  departed. 


CHAPTEK  XV. 

NO  sank  back  into  the  arm-chair  as  the  door  closed, 
and  for  an  hour  or  more  she  stayed  there,  almost  without 
movement.  The  struggle  that  had  taken  place  within  her, 
none  of  the  signs  of  which  she  had  shown  to  him,  had 
left  her  powerless,  impotent,  inert.  Sometimes  her  eyes 
opened  and  she  gazed  dully  at  the  fire  that  he  had  caused 
to  be  lit  and,  cold  though  she  was  still,  she  had  not  the 
energy  or  the  wish  to  benefit  by  its  brightness. 

On  the  table  by  her  side  lay  the  little  sheaf  of  papers — 
the  written  statements  of  the  solicitors  who  had  advised 
him — just  as  he  had  left  them.  Occasionally  her  eyes 
watched  them  as  though  they  were  alive,  which,  indeed, 
to  her  they  were — alive  with  the  still  pregnant  power  of 
temptation.  She  lay  there  in  the  arm-chair  encouraging 
her  feeling  of  exhaustion,  because  she  knew  that  if  she 
moved  or  left  her  place,  she  would  succumb  to  the  wish  to 
read  them,  and  beyond  that  she  could  see  no  certain  road. 
So  long  as  she  lay  there  inert,  passively  resisting  the  incli- 
nation to  be  convinced  that  he  was  right,  she  could  foresee 
her  own  victory.  The  terrors  of  excommunication  had 
their  full  weight  with  her,  and  consciously,  intentionally, 
she  summoned  all  her  power  of  imagination  to  picture 
them  in  her  mind.  She  terrorized  herself  because  she  knew 
that  if  she  did  not  persist  in  keeping  their  horrors  before 
her,  she  would  inevitably  give  way  to  the  longing  to  yield 

262 


TRAFFIC.  263 

her  soul  and  body  to  the  man  who  had  won  her  heart  hon- 
orably for  himself. 

And  thus,  for  an  hour  or  more,  she  lay  in  the  arm-chair 
tormenting,  torturing  herself  with  the  terrors  that  she 
forced  herself  to  depict ;  until  the  crisis  of  her  temptation 
came  with  the  contempt  that  is  bred  of  familiarity.  She 
had  terrified  herself  for  so  long  that  the  terror  became 
secondary  to  her  desire  for  happiness.  She  began  to  think 
that  in  his  arms  and  in  his  life,  with  his  body  and  his  will 
to  shield  her,  these  scenes  that  she  had  been  so  vividly 
painting,  like  mediaeval  frescoes  of  Hell,  might  have  but 
little  effect  upon  her.  She  began  to  consider  that  she  could 
face  them  through  life  if  he  stood  by  her.  "  Be  excom- 
municated ! "  he  had  said,  "  that  doesn't  deprive  you  of 
your  belief  in  the  goodness  of  God — that  doesn't  rob  you  of 
your  faith  in  Christ " — and  all  of  it  was  perfectly  true. 
Nothing  on  earth  could  rob  her  of  those  things ;  these  she 
would  always  have  with  her. 

It  was  when  she  came  to  the  moment  of  this  thought  that 
she  stood  up  with  a  frightened,  muffled  cry.  She  had  come 
to  the  very  verge  of  the  edge  and,  looking  suddenly  below, 
there  saw  the  awful  abyss  into  which  she  had  all  but  fallen. 
Below  her  there,  far  down  beneath,  she  saw  death  without 
the  last  rites  of  the  Church  and,  believing  in  the  simple- 
ness  of  her  heart,  and  with  the  faith  she  had  been  taught, 
that  without  these  no  love  of  God  or  agony  of  repentance 
could  bring  her  to  the  heavy  locked  gates  of  Heaven,  she 
turned  from  the  way  she  had  been  drifting,  and  rushed 
into  the  sheltering  arms  of  her  belief. 

Without  daring  to  look  again  at  the  papers  that  lay  on 
the  table,  she  went  into  her  bedroom,  put  on  her  coat  and 
hat,  then  went  downstairs  out  into  the  street.  As  once 
before,  in  a  crisis  of  her  life,  she  turned  her  steps  in  the 


264  TRAFFIC, 

direction  of  a  church,  and  there,  having  prayed  before  the 
High  Altar,  she  entered  a  confessional. 

Within  a  few  moments  her  story  in  every  detail  was  told 
to  the  priest  who  heard  her. 

"  What  had  I  better  do,  father  ?  "  she  asked,  when  she 
had  finished. 

He  was  an  English  priest.  There  was  no  sentiment 
about  him.  He  did  not  paint  pretty  pictures  of  the  signs 
of  a  forgiving  God,  or  describe  the  horrors  of  a  life  made 
naked  and  ashamed  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  a  Church.  He 
was  practical — to  the  point. 

"  You  ask  my  advice  ?  "  he  said  plainly.  "  Then  go 
back  to  your  husband.  Without  her  husband,  however  bad 
he  may  be,  a  woman  cannot  fight  against  the  world  and  its 
temptations.  It  can  do  no  good  ?  Who  gives  you  the  right 
to  say  that  ?  How  can  you  tell  ?  Do  you  take  upon  your- 
self the  power  of  omniscience  ?  It  may  be  doing  the  great- 
est good  in  the  world.  No  man  is  incapable  of  reformation. 
You  think  of  the  life  hereafter;  then  make  your  life  here 
such  that  it  will  merit  reward.  I  don't  suggest  that  it 
will  be  easy.  I  don't  suggest  that,  if  you  do  it,  it  will  be 
bound  to  succeed.  If  I  were  to  say  so  I  should  be  giving 
you  false  hope.  But  there  is  good  in  the  worst  of  us.  God 
may  help  you  to  find  it  in  him,  and  at  least  you  will  have 
done  your  duty." 

She  sighed  involuntarily.  She  knew  that  he  did  not 
understand.  No  quality  of  remorse,  no  hope  of  better 
things,  had  she  ever  seen  in  Jamesy's  character.  She  felt 
certain  that  if  she  went  back  to  the  farm  in  Glenlicky, 
things  would  be  precisely  the  same.  He  had  no  love  for 
her;  had  never  really  possessed  it.  There  was  no  founda- 
tion in  him  for  the  better  things.  This  she  told  the  priest, 
haltingly,  submissively. 

"  Then  bring  him  over  here/'  he  replied.    "  You  ask  me 


TRAFFIC.  265 

my  advice,  you  wish  to  know  what  the  Church  would  say — 
that  is,  the  answer  of  the  Church.  It  can  offer  no  other 
answer.  "  Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man 
put  asunder."  This  is  the  only  way  to  save  yourself  from 
the  temptation  that  besets  you.  For,  be  warned  by  me, 
so  long  as  you  are  alone,  this  man  of  whom  you  speak  will 
not  leave  you  to  yourself;  the  more  so  because  he  is  not 
a  Catholic,  and  could  not  understand  your  motives  for 
withholding  from  him  what  he  desires.  And  then,  what 
will  happen  ?  You  will  not  give  way,  perhaps,  but  he  will 
induce  you  into  sin.  Now,  what  will  you  do?  What  will 
you  do  ?  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  hear  you  say  before  you  leave 
the  Church.  What  will  you  do?  " 

"I  will  send  for  my  husband,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  the  voice  of  one  who  sees  death. 


BOOK  IV. 

THE  CROSS-ROADS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

ONE  midday,  two  weeks  after  the  priest's  advice  to 
Nanno  in  the  confessional,  the  Milford  train  deposited  on 
the  Paddington  arrival  platform  a  man  whose  bemused 
amazement  in  the  midst  of  his  strange  surroundings  was 
almost  humorous.  At  every  station  where  the  train  had 
stopped  on  its  way  up  from  Milford,  he  had  alighted  from 
his  carriage  and,  with  wide  eyes,  asked  the  first  person  he 
encountered  whether  he  was  in  London.  When  at  length 
he  did  arrive,  he  went  through  the  same  ceremony.  On 
being  told  that  he  was  at  his  destination,  he  stood  on  the 
platform  outside  his  carriage  with  mouth  half  opened  and 
impotent  attitude.  People  as  they  passed  him  gazed,  some 
with  compassion,  some  with  amusement,  according  to  their 
mood,  at  his  obvious  bewilderment. 

At  last  a  porter,  having  already  seen  to  the  wants  of  one 
passenger  on  the  train,  approached  him. 

"  'Ave  yer  got  'ny  luggage  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  man  looked  at  him  helplessly. 

"  'Ave  yer  got  'ny  luggage  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Shure,  I  dunno  what  the  hell  ye're  sayin',"  the  man 
replied,  with  exasperation.  "  Where's  me  throonk  ?  " 

The  porter  assumed  an  attitude. 

"  Look  'ere,"  he  said  f  orbearingly,  "  if  you  want  a  box 
what  nobody  else  '11  claim,  why  don't  yer  say  so?  It's 
down  'ere  on  the  platform ;  I  chucked  it  out  myself."  He 
moved  away  in  ihe  direction  that  he  had  indicated. 

269 


270  TRAFFIC. 

"  Come  on,"  he  said,  looking  back ;  and  Jamesy  Ryan — this 
was  indeed  the  genesis  of  ISTanno's  husband  in  London — 
moved  awkwardly  after  him.  -He  wore  a  rough  tweed  suit, 
ill-fitting,  coarse  in  texture,  the  best  of  its  type  that  Anesk 
could  produce.  His  hat,  a  black,  broad-brimmed,  soft  felt 
— not  unlike  the  sombrero  as  worn  in  Spain — was  one  that 
is  donned  by  men  in  Eathmore  on  Sundays  and  feast-days. 
His  boots  chinked  merrily  with  nails  as  he  walked,  and  his 
whole  appearance  only  served  the  more  to  alienate  him 
from  his  surroundings.  He  looked  servile;  in  that  vast 
area,  roofed  in  with  glass,  and  vibrating  with  the  noise  of 
the  incoming  and  departing  engines,  he  felt  servile — an 
animal  untrained  to  the  stir  of  life  cast  headlong  between 
the  spinning-wheels  of  traffic.  The  cunning  twinkle  in  his 
eyes  was  almost  dead.  A  rough  crossing  from  Cork  and  a 
tiring  railway  journey  had  subdued  it.  "Whenever  a  train 
shrieked  with  its  metallic  whistle  he  turned  and  gazed 
about  him  with  fogged  amazement. 

"  Is  this  yours  ?  "  asked  the  porter,  kicking  an  ungainly 
box  that  lay  severely  alone  upon  the  platform. 

"  It  is — what  the  deuce  are  ye  kicking  it  for  ?  " 

"All  right— all  right.  That  won't  'urt  it.  Don't  lose 
yer  rag.  Where  are  yer  goin'  ?  " 

Jamesy  gave  him  an  address,  as  though  he  were  con- 
fiding a  secret. 

"Well — yer  better  get  a  cab."  The  porter  whistled  to 
one  that  came  leisurely  forward  and  then,  with  a  deft 
swing,  he  hoisted  the  box  on  to  his  shoulder.  Jamesy 
looked  at  his  slight,  wiry  figure,  and  marveled.  Then  he 
followed  him  to  the  hansom,  made  ungainly  efforts  to  get 
into  it,  and  finally  subsided  into  his  seat.  The  porter 
waited  expectantly  on  the  platform.  Jamesy  took  no 
notice  of  him.  At  last  the  cab,  detained  for  the  porter's 
benefit,  moved  away. 


TRAFFIC.  271 

"  Keep  an  eye  skinned  on  'im,"  the  porter  called  out  to 
the  driver — 'E's  made  o'  the  bloody  mint — 'e  is." 

The  driver  opened  the  trap  door  and  asked  what  address. 
Jamesy  jumped  at  the  unexpected  sound  of  the  voice.  He 
looked  wildly  about  him.  When  the  cabman  repeated  his 
question,  Jamesy  looked  up  and  saw  a  red  face  through  a 
square  hole  in  the  roof. 

"  What  is  it  ye  want  in  the  name  o'  God  ?  "  he  asked. 
This  second  voice  was  as  unintelligible  to  him  as  the  por- 
ter's had  been  at  first. 

The  driver  pulled  up  his  horse  and  asked  the  question 
for  the  third  time,  enunciating  each  word  with  comic  em- 
phasis. Ryan  called  out  the  number  of  a  road  in  the  by- 
ways of  Earl's  Court  and  they  finally  drove  out  of  the 
station.  He  could  not  look  everywhere  at  once;  accord- 
ingly, he  was  so  dazed  that  only  a  very  few  things  reached 
his  puzzled  powers  of  observation.  At  the  corner  of  one 
street  he  saw  a  barrel-organ  being  played  by  a  navvy  out  of 
work.  The  man's  wife,  with  a  little  child  in  her  arms, 
was  leaning  up  against  the  handle  by  which  the  instrument 
was  drawn  from  one  place  to  another.  The  handle  caught 
and  pressed  in  her  dress,  displaying  with  coarse  brutality 
her  approaching  condition  of  maternity.  A  look  leaped 
into  Jamesy's  eyes  and  he  strained  his  attitude  in  the  cab  to 
watch  her.  A  little  farther  on,  a  ponderous  advertisement 
of  a  brand  of  whisky  that  he  knew  caught  his  eye.  He 
gazed  at  that.  Most  of  his  impressions,  however,  were 
vague.  Things  passed  too  quickly  by  him. 

At  last  the  driver  pulled  up  before  a  door.  With  some 
difficulty  Jamesy  descended.  The  driver  lowered  the  box 
down  from  the  roof  of  the  cab  on  to  the  pavement.  Ryan 
felt  in  his  pockets,  finally  producing  a  shilling,  and  placing 
it  in  the  cabman's  outstretched  hand.  For  a  moment  the 


272  TRAFFIC. 

latter  looked  at  it;  then  his  gaze  rested  expectantly  on 
Jamesy. 

"  'Ere — come  on,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  stop  'ere  waitin' 
while  you  dive  for  'em.  Two  shillin's  my  fare." 

"Your  what?" 

"  My  fare — two  shillin's." 

"  Is  it  to  pay  ye  two  shillings  I  am,  and  ye  only  drivin' 
me  for  twenty  minutes  ?  Shure,  glory  be  to  God  !  " 

He  brought  out  another  shilling,  laying  it  with  the  first 
in  the  patiently  waiting  hand. 

"  You  ought  to  travel  in  a  black  Maria,  that's  what  you 
ought,"  the  driver  remarked,  as  he  turned  his  horse. 
"  Cabs  is  too  hexpensive  for  you.  You  try  a  black  Maria 
next  time  yer  goin'  away  for  a  week  hend." 

The  satire  was  lost  upon  Jamesy,  who  was  thinking  of 
his  two  shillings.  Just  at  that  moment  the  door  of  the 
house  opened  and  a  sour-faced  woman  looked  out. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Kyan  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  am,"  he  replied,  turning  round  with  relief. 

"  Well — unless  you  want  a  policeman  to  move  yer  hon 
you'd  better  come  inside  and  bring  that  box  with  yer." 

He  did  what  he  was  bid  with  childlike  obedience. 

"  Yer  wife'll  be  i>ack  at  'arf-past  six,"  she  said,  as  she 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  at  every  moment  she 
looked  him  up  and  down  with  unconcealed  surprise. 

"  P'raps  you'd  like  to  go  to  yer  room  ?  "  she  suggested 
vaguely,  thinking  that  he  might  improve  with  a  change  of 
clothes.  She  could  not  have  supposed  that  these  were  his 
best. 

He  followed  her  upstairs  like  a  dog  retreating  to  its 
kennel  and,  going  some  few  minutes  later  into  the  kitchen 
where  a  friend  of  hers  had  been  sitting  with  her,  the  land- 
lady deposited  herself  into  a  chair  with  an  exclamation : 

"  Well,  I  never  did  in  all  my  born  life !  "  she  said. 


TRAFFIC.  273 

The  friend  waited  expectantly  to  hear  what  it  was  that 
she  had  never  done. 

"  If  Vs  'er  'usband,"  she  went  on,  gathering  breath, 
''she  throw'd  'erself  away — that's  what  she's  done.  Why 
a  girl  like  that — you  see'd  her  when  she  was  'ere  the  other 
night — didn't  yer  ?  A  girl  like  that  cud  marry  right  well. 
She's  only  been  'ere  three  days,  but  I  know  the  sort  that's 
ladylike.  Why,  I've  'card  ladies  in  shops  speak  no  better'n 
what  she  does."  She  pressed  her  hair  back  from  her  fore- 
head, sighed  heavily,  and  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"  Phew !  Ain't  there  a  smell !  "  said  her  visitor,  alluding 
to  the  normal  odor  of  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Eandal  filled  her  lungs  with  the  surrounding 
atmosphere  and  closed  her  eyes  imperturbably.  "  She's  a 
damned  sight  too  good  for  'im,"  she  said,  still  thinking  of 
her  new  lodger. 

"  Don't  you  notice  it  ?  "  repeated  her  friend,  still  refer- 
ring to  the  scent  that  offended  her.  She  looked  suspi- 
ciously at  a  pot  that  simmered  on  the  hob. 

"  Xotice  it  ?  No !  I'd  like  to  see  them  meet  when  she 
comes  in  thi'  s'evenin'."  So  Mrs.  Eandal  continued  to 
conjecture  upon  her  latest  lodgers,  oblivious  of  the  more 
apparent  facts  of  life. 

And  upstairs,  Jamesy  was  sitting  on  the  spotlessly  white 
bed,  gazing  at  the  floor,  wondering  why  he  had  come  to 
London.  He  knew  that  he  was  utterly  out  of  his  element. 
Through  all  those  streets  by  which  he  had  come,  there  was 
not  one  face  that  he  had  known  in  the  throngs  of  people 
who  had  passed  him  by.  He  missed  the  faces  that  were 
friendly ;  he  missed  the  places  that  were  familiar.  At  last 
a  dismal  depression  overcame  him,  and  after  a  few  heavy 
sighs  he  went  downstairs,  passing  into  the  street. 

"  Will  ye  tell  me  the  way  I  could  find  a  public-house  ?  " 
he  asked  of  the  first  man  that  he  met. 
18 


274  TRAFFIC. 

"  Second  turning  to  the  left,"  the  man  replied,  and 
looked  after  him  with  amused  surprise. 

He  found  the  place  and  pushed  his  way  into  the  bar. 
No  one  was  there  but  the  barmaid,  a  substantial  woman 
with  a  coarse  face,  who  sat  on  a  stool  reading  a  novelette. 
Whenever  it  got  exciting  she  picked  her  teeth  excitedly 
with  the  broken  end  of  a  wooden  match.  Jamesy  watched 
her  for  a  moment.  At  last  she  looked  up. 

"  Beg  pard'n,"  she  said,  laying  down  the  book.  "  I 
thought  someone  'ad  come  in  and  gone  hout  again.  What's 
yours  ?  " 

"  Whisky,  please,"  he  said. 

She  poured  it  out  for  him,  passed  him  a  jug  of  water, 
then  reseated  herself  on  the  stool,  returning  to  her  novel. 
He  leaned  on  the  counter  and  watched  her.  The  glass  was 
only  raised  to  his  mouth  twice ;  then  he  asked  for  another. 
She  rose  mechanically  and  poured  it  out. 

"  Won't  ye  be  havin'  any  yeerself  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  Thanks — I  don't  mind — a  glass  of  port's  mine."  She 
poured  it  out  from  a  dirty  decanter.  Sediment  swilled  in 
with  the  liquid  into  the  glass. 

"  'Ere's  your  very  good  'ealth,"  she  said,  winking  at 
him  through  the  glass. 

He  winked  at  her,  holding  his  up  to  his  nose. 

"  Do  you  come  from  Scotland  ?  "  she  asked,  after  she 
had  licked  her  lips. 

"  Shure,  I  do  not,"  he  said,  half  laughing. 

"Ireland,  then?" 

"Faith,  I  come  from  Rathmore — that's  where  I  come 
from.  Did  ye  ever  meet  any  from  Rathmore  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  vaguely.  She  suspected  that  this 
was  not  only  the  second  whisky  he  had  taken  that  day. 

For  almost  an  hour  he  stood  there  talking  to  her.    With 


TRAFFIC.  275 

the  third  glass  of  whisky,  his  better  spirits  returned,  and 
some  of  his  native  humor  oozed  out.  The  barmaid  found 
him  passable  company,  more  especially  while  she  was 
drinking  a  second  port  at  his  expense.  She  even  forgot  her 
nevelette,  in  which  the  hero  was  just  coming  through  the 
wood  where  the  heroine  lay  asleep. 

When  he  asked  for  a  fifth  glass  of  whisky  and  offered, 
her  a  third  of  port,  she  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  up  from  the  country  with  more  money  than  he  knew 
what  to  do  with  and,  as  they  parted,  a  seal  of  good  fellow- 
ship was  implied  by  her  in  the  spasmodic  way  with  which 
she  pressed  the  horny  hand  he  offered  her. 

He  returned  to  his  lodgings  with  a  more  favorable  im- 
pression of  London.  In  every  respect  he  was  in  a  more 
agreeable  state  of  mind.  He  unpacked  the  big  box  and 
waited  for  Xanno's  return  in  a  state  of  expectant  equa- 
nimity. 

Soon  after  half-past  six,  Mrs.  Randal  wiped  her  hands 
on  her  apron  and  admitted  Xanno  by  the  front  door. 

"  Has  my  husband  come  ?  "  was  the  first  question  that 
she  asked. 

"  'E  'as,"  Mrs.  Eanclal  replied  conclusively  as  she  closed 
the  door.  "  'E's  come." 

With  a  nauseating  sensation  of  apprehension,  Xanno 
mounted  the  stairs.  There  were  moments  when,  as  her 
foot  touched  a  higher  step,  she  felt  that  she  must  turn 
back,  fly  out  of  the  house,  find  Jerningham,  and  let  the 
Church  wreak  its  will  against  her.  Yet  her  body  moved 
on,  bringing  her  nearer  to  the  end  at  which  her  mind  was 
shuddering  as  though,  carried  by  some  powerful  force 
which  she  could  not  physically  resist,  her  mind  rebelled 
with  every  inch  of  ground.  At  last  she  stood  outside  the 
bedroom  door,  and  hesitatingly  her  hand  sought  the 
handle.  With  an  effort  then  to  swallow  the  sensation  that 


276  TRAFFIC 

rose  to  her  throat,,  she  opened  the  door  and  walked  into 
the  room. 

Giving  way  to  a  feeling  of  fatigue  that  had  heen  exag- 
gerated by  the  whisky  which  he  had  consumed,  Jamesy 
had  lifted  his  heavy  boots  on  to  the  white  quilt  which  cov- 
ered the  bed,  and  had  fallen  asleep.  His  head  was  reclining 
on  the  pillow;  his  mouth,  wide  open,  was  emitting  sterto- 
rous snores  that  one  by  one  rose  in  pitch  until  they  reached 
a  climax  when  it  seemed  that  he  must  choke.  Then  they 
stopped  for  a  moment,  beginning  again  in  the  lowest  key 
and  leading  up  slowly  once  more  to  the  dominant.  She 
stood  there  and  watched  him.  She  looked  at  the  mark  of 
mud  that  his  boots  had  made  on  the  spotless  quilt.  She 
thought  of  the  tidy  little  room  that  she  had  had  to  herself 
in  the  Fulham  Road.  She  looked  round  at  the  bare  room 
that  she  must  now  share  with  him. 

Then  again  she  looked  at  him  sleeping  there.  That 
night  her  face  would  be  close  to  his.  A  sob  of  rebellious 
tears  tightened  in  her  throat.  She  bent  down  over  the  bed 
in  an  endeavor  to  try  and  realize  how  horrible  it  would  be 
to  sleep  close  to  the  face  that  was  there  before  her.  Then 
the  odor  of  whisky  reached  her  nostrils,  and  she  stood  up- 
right with  a  moan  of  despair  that  parted  her  lips.  Less 
than  ever  now  could  she  tolerate  a  drunken  man.  For  the 
last  year  she  had  never  come  in  contact  with  one.  The 
familiarity  of  it  in  Ireland  had  bred  some  sort  of  contempt ; 
but  now,  even  the  girls  she  knew  would  run  frightened 
from  a  drunken  man  who  came  near  them  on  the  footpath. 

At  the  sound  of  her  moan  he  sat  up  looking  at  her.  The 
expectation  of  her  return  had  been  the  last  thing  in  his 
mind  before  he  went  to  sleep ;  the  realization  of  it  he  was 
not  slow  to  grasp. 

"  Glory  be  to  God — is  that  yeerself  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  and 
his  eyes  wandered  over  her  from  head  to  foot.  As  with 


TBAFFIC. 

Jerningham,  though  with  an  infinitely  slower  degree  of 
intellect,  he  could  not  connect  the  girl  who  had  been  his 
wife  in  Ireland,  with  this  neatly  dressed  person  who  stood 
beside  his  bed.  Never  did  a  Christopher  Sly  wake  more 
amazed  to  see  madam — his  wife.  With  the  gradual  sub- 
sidence of  his  surprise,  he  got  down  from  the  bed,  still 
watching  her. 

"  Begorra,"  he  said,  "  'tis  mighty  changed  ye  are.  Only 
for  ye  shtandin'  there,  I  wouldn't  have  known  ye."  His 
eyes  still  rested  on  her  and  the  old  lust  of  her  that  had 
dominated  him  before  their  marriage  crept  through  his 
blood.  He  forgot  his  own  viciousness;  he  overlooked  his 
own  brutality.  It  seemed  to  him  in  that  moment  that  she 
had  for  the  last  }rear  defrauded  him  of  herself. 

"  What  the  hell  did  ye  mean  by  running  away  from 
me  ?  "  he  asked  at  length.  He  did  not  speak  violently,  but 
his  method  of  expression,  which  for  so  long  her  ears  had 
been  unaccustomed  to,  disgusted  her.  She  turned  away 
from  him  with  a  look  of  repulsion  in  her  eyes.  She  turned 
away  because,  in  the  very  outset  of  her  effort,  she  did  not 
wish  him  to  see  the  smallest  suggestion  of  failure. 

"  Why  was  it  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  that,"  she  said  quietly.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  he  had  heard  her  voice.  The  sound 
of  it  amazed  him  as  much  as  her  appearance  had  done. 
He  thought  she  was  putting  on  airs,  and  for  a  moment  it 
irritated  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of  expressing  his  irri- 
tation when  he  looked  at  her  and  considered  that  she  must 
be  treated  gently — with  what  he  considered  gentleness — 
if  he  were  to  be  allowed  to  gratify  the  desire  that  possessed 
him. 

"  Shure,  if  that's  the  way  wid  ye,  we  won't  talk  about  it 
at  all."  He  came  closer  to  her  and  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist.  She  stood  there  like  a  pillar  of  stone. 


278  TRAFFIC. 

"  Aren't  ye  goin'  to  give  me  a  kiss  ?  "  he  said. 

She  turned  a  cold,  white  face  to  his.  It  would  have  been 
so  much  easier  to  look  death  in  the  eyes.  He  crushed  her 
mouth  with  heavy  kisses,  then  whispered  something  in  her 
ear. 

A  shudder  ran  through  her  body.  Her  eyes  looked  as 
though  they  sought  help. 

"  I'll  have  a  meal  sent  up  to  you,"  she  said.  "  I'd  go  to 
bed  then,  if  I  were  you — you  must  be  tired." 

He  admitted  that  he  was. 

"  How  about  yeerself  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Aren't  ye  goin' 
to  have  somethin'  to  eat  ?  " 

"  No — I've  had  my  dinner." 

"  Well — will  ye  come  back  here  then  ?  " 

She  walked  to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"Not  to-night,"  she  replied. 

"  Yirra,  damn  it  all !  "  he  exclaimed,  taking  a  step  to- 
wards her. 

She  slipped  out  of  the  room  before  he  could  reach  her 
and  closed  the  door,  hearing  his  oath  as  she  hurried  down 
the  stairs. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

KANNO  had  hoped  that  Mrs.  Eandal  would  have  another 
room  to  spare  her.  Her  determination  was  not  daunted 
when  she  heard  that  it  was  impossible. 

"  Why  ain't  yer  goin'  to  sleep  wiv  'im  to-night  ?  "  her 
landlady  asked  suspiciously. 

Xanno  looked  worried. 

"  He's  tired,"  she  said—"  he'll  sleep  better  by  himself." 

Mrs.  Randal  sniffed.  There  was  something  in  the  af- 
fair that  made  friction  against  her  peace  of  mind.  She 
silently  promised  herself  a  strict  surveillance  of  all  their 
actions. 

"You  couldn't  make  me  up  a  bed  on  the  sofa  in  the 
sitting-room  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  What  next  hindeed  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Eandal. 

"  Oh,  I  should  pay  you  for  it,"  Xanno  exclaimed. 

"My  best  'orse-'air  sofa?    No — thank  you." 

"  Then  I  must  ask  a  friend  to  put  me  up." 

"  Well — that's  as  you  like — but  if  'e's  yer  'usband  as  you 
says  'e  is — your  place  is  wiv  'im,  if  you  was  to  arst  me. 
A  tired  man  don't  sleep  no  worse  for  'is  wife  bein'  wiv 
?im." 

Nanno  left  the  subject,  ordered  a  meal  for  Jamesy,  and 
went  out. 

For  the  moment,  when  she  had  alluded  to  a  friend, 
ISTanno  had  thought  of  going  to  Miss  Shaud.  After  she 
had  walked  a  little  way,  she  put  the  thought  out  of  her 
head.  The  last  day  on  which  they  had  parted  they  had 

279 


2SO  TRAFFIC. 

not  been  on  very  friendly  terms,  and  since  then,  in  the 
restaurant,  Miss  Shand's  smile  had  been  somewhat  re- 
served. Pride  finally  compelled  her  to  put  it  out  of  her 
mind.  But  in  its  place  a  longing  had  been  growing  in  her 
thoughts,  to  go  and  see  Jerningham's  rooms.  She  knew 
the  window  that  looked  on  to  Middle  Temple  Lane  and 
perhaps,  if  she  stood  there  for  a  short  while  at  some  little 
distance,  she  might  see  him  moving  about  inside.  The  mere 
fact  of  seeing  him,  she  imagined,  would  help  her  to  forget 
what  awaited  her  at  home.  It  was  a  mood  of  desperation 
— the  last  determination  to  watch  the  flame  that  had  almost 
consumed  her,  before  she  went  out  once  more  into  the  utter 
darkness. 

She  did  not  know  as  yet  whether  Jerningham  had  come 
back  to  the  Fulham  Road  to  ask  for  her  final  decision.  He 
had  not  been  to  see  her  at  the  restaurant,  as  she  fully 
anticipated  that  he  would,  when  he  found  her  gone,  leav- 
ing no  address.  Circumstances  all  pointed  to  the  belief 
that  he  had  given  her  a  full  seven  days  to  arrive  at  the 
determination  for  which  he  was  waiting. 

Every  step  of  the  way  to  Middle  Temple  Lane,  when 
once  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  she  walked.  The  expense 
of  keeping  two  people  in  the  new  rooms  that  she  had 
chosen  was  going  to  try  her  severely.  But  in  her  heart 
she  hoped — expected — that  Jamesy  would  try  to  find  some 
work  for  himself.  Ultimately  she  was  disappointed  in 
this.  Jamesy  was  not  the  type  of  man  who  works  to 
justify  himself.  In  his  own  eyes  no  justification  was  nec- 
essary. He  found  himself  in  life  with  certain  appetites, 
certain  instincts,  and  these  he  did  not  hesitate  to  gratify. 
Work  was  not  one  of  them. 

Nevertheless,  then  at  least  at  the  outset,  Nanno  looked 
on  the  more  optimistic  side  of  the  most  pitiful  situation 
that  a  woman  has  to  face.  She  could  not  see  any  degree 


TRAFFIC.  S81 

of  brightness  before  her.  She  had  burned  her  boats.  From 
the  harbor  of  what  might  have  been  her  refuge,  she  could 
mark  the  smoke  rising  in  its  columns  of  sacrifice,  while  be- 
fore her  lay  the  impenetrable  endlessness  of  the  open  sea. 
But  despair  had  not  come  to  her  then.  The  valley,  which 
once  she  had  described  to  Jerningham,  where  there  lurkel 
the  dull,  gra}r,  silent  figure  of  Death,  was  still  on  the  hori- 
zon; there  were  still  roads  to  be  taken  which  avoided  it 
on  the  right  hand  or  on  the  left. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  she  passed  through  the 
gates  that  open  into  Middle  Temple  Lane  from  Fleet 
Street.  The  porter  in  the  little  office,  warming  his  hands 
and  stamping  his  feet,  looked  through  his  window  with 
healthy  suspicion.  He  might  have  questioned  had  he 
wished,  but  he  knew  his  business. 

The  Law  Courts  clock  chimed  the  quarter  as  she  reached 
Jerningham's  rooms.  For  a  moment  after,  the  night 
seemed  alive  with  the  sonorous  answers  of  a  hundred  other 
bells  that  clanged  the  hour,  even  into  the  far  distance, 
like  echoes  in  an  empty  house.  Then  everything  was  still. 
Xanno  leaned  against  the  railings  opposite  Plowden  Build- 
ings, gazing  up  at  Jerningham's  windows.  There  was  a 
light  there,  as  she  had  expected.  At  first  it  was  only  the 
light  of  a  fire  that  flickered  and  wavered  with  the  antics  of 
a  fawn ;  but  after  a  little  while  a  black  figure  came  to  the 
window,  a  match  was  struck;  she  saw  him  light  the  lamp 
that  stood  on  the  table. 

This  was  the  last  time  she  would  see  him,  she  told  her- 
self, and  in  an  endeavor  to  invest  it  with  the  semblance 
of  truth,  she  repeated  it  as  she  watched  him.  This  was  the 
last  time,  the  very  last,  the  very  last.  Her  vitality  seemed 
to  sink  lower  and  lower  with  each  word  as  she  uttered  it. 
Life  went  out  of  her  as  the  liquid  oozes  out  of  a  leaky 
vessel,  when  she  forced  its  meaning  upon  herself.  And 


2S2  TRAFFIC. 

Jerningham,  sublimely  unconscious  that  the  eyes  he  loved 
were  watching  him,  added  to  the  torture  of  her  mind  by 
remaining  at  the  window  engrossed  in  a  book  that  he  had 
picked  up  from  the  table. 

So  long  as  he  stood  there,  she  could  not  wrench  herself 
away.  It  did  not  satisfy  her  that  she  had  just  seen  him. 
She  laid  herself  down  willingly — eagerly — upon  the  rack 
of  her  own  making  and  made  the  pain  her  pleasure. 

At  last  he  moved  back  into  the  room,  out  of  sight ;  but 
it  was  only  when  the  clocks  again  were  striking  the  hour 
of  nine  that  she  turned  away.  The  hope  that  he  might 
return  had  been  exhausted.  The  fear  that  she  might 
mount  the  stairs  and  knock  at  his  door  was  driving  her. 
She  passed  down  to  the  Embankment  just  as  the  gates 
were  closing,  but  she  dared  not  go  home.  All  that  night 
she  moved  from  one  place  to  another,  resting  here  or  there 
when  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen,  walking,  as  though  with 
a  definite  purpose,  when  any  one  approached  her.  In  the 
sky  above  her  head,  where  the  stars  twinkled  in  the  bitter 
night,  she  saw  God — the  God  she  could  still  worship,  the 
God  she  could  still  call  her  own;  but  before  her,  around 
her,  beneath  her,  was  a  great  city,  where  she  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  the  mind  of  a  woman,  when  life  ceases  to  be  a  miracle 
it  becomes  a  degradation.  From  the  moment  that  Nanno 
resumed  her  duties  as  a  wife  to  Jamesy  Ryan,  life  lost  its 
sense  of  mystery;  the  gossamer  fabric  of  illusion  with 
which  she  had  clothed  it  was  torn  away,  and  in  its  naked 
reality  she  saw  nothing  but  the  gross  hideousness  of  every- 
thing. Give  a  woman  the  truth,  and  she  will  idealize  it  in 
order  to  live  with  it.  Deprive  her  of  those  cunning  little 
instruments  with  which  she  makes  ideals,  and  the  truth  is 
likely  to  degrade  her.  It  degraded  Nanno. 

A  convention  of  priests  might  have  told  her  that  her 
only  course  was  to  return  to  Jamesy  Ryan,  but  they  could 
not  secure  her  mind  against  the  degradation  and  loss  of 
self-esteem  that  such  a  reunion  would  be  bound  to  canker 
in  her  thoughts. 

For  that  first  night  she  fought  against  it,  but  the  end 
was  inevitable.  Eating  through  the  wax  into  the  metal, 
the  biting  acid  of  truth  was  bent  upon  etching  its  picture 
of  disgust.  She  was  his  wife ;  as  her  husband  she  had  re- 
ceived him  back.  Within  three  days  she  loathed  herself. 

It  was  in  this  condition  of  mind  that  Jerningham  found 
her  when,  going  to  the  Fulham  Road  and  being  told  that 
she  had  left  with  no  address,  he  hastened  the  next  day  at 
four  o'clock  to  the  restaurant  of  Maynard's  Stores. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this,  Nanno  ?  "  were  the  first 
words  he  asked,  when  she  came  to  serve  him.  "Do  you 
think  you've  treated  me  fairly  ?  " 

283       ' 


284  TRAFFIC. 

She  made  no  reply.  He  had  never  seen  her  look  as  she 
looked  then. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  the  Fulham  Eoad  without  giving 
any  address — without  giving  me  the  answer,  negative  or 
affirmative,  either  of  which,  at  least,  I  deserved  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  that  day,"  she  said  quietly,  "  what  you 
asked  was  impossible.  I  should  have  been  excommunicated 
if  I'd  done  what  you  wanted." 

"  You  count  that  as  everything  ?  " 

"And  isn't  it?" 

" '  I  thank  whatever  Gods  there  be  for  my  unconquer- 
able soul/  "  Jerningham  quoted. 

"  There's  only  one  God/'  said  JSTanno  simply.  "  Oh/' 
she  added  bitterly,  "you  don't  understand!  How  could 
you  ?  You  don't  know  what  it  would  mean  one  day  to  die 
and  know  that  no  service  would  be  read  over  your  grave, 
that  no  prayers  would  be  said  for  your  soul  in  Purgatory. 
You  don't  know  what  it  would  mean  to  go  straight  into 
hell  without  absolution,  and  to  suffer  there  forever  and 
ever — never  to  know  any  relief,  always  to  be  in  torment — 
always — think  of  it !  " 

"  My  God !  "  Jerningham  exclaimed  in  an  undertone, 
"  do  you  believe  that  ?  " 

"  I  must  believe  it,"  she  replied. 

"  And  if  I  married  you,  you  believe  that  I  should  bring 
all  that  upon  you  ?  " 

"  I  must  believe  it." 

"  You  believe  that  the  God  you  call  all-merciful  would 
damn  your  soul  forever  because  you  made  the  life  of  one 
man  on  this  world  a  perfect  happiness  and  filled  it  with  a 
higher  nobility  of  purpose  ?  " 

"  I  must  believe  it." 

She  felt  that  if  she  did  not  continue  to  say  that  she 
would  break  down. 


TRAFFIC.  285 

Jtrnirigham  changed  the  tone  of  his  voice.  "  Where  do 
you  live  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Don't  ask  me,"  she  said—"  I  can't  tell  you." 

"You  don't  trust  me?" 

"  Yes — I  trust  you  with  everything — I — I " 

"You  can't  trust  yourself?" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  have  ?  " 

"  You  avoid  the  question  ?  " 

"  You  must  tell  me  what  you  want.  I  shall  be  blamed 
for  standing  here  so  long." 

Jerningham  accepted  the  inevitable,  little  thinking  that, 
in  those  few  moments,  he  went  nearer  to  the  winning  of 
his  purpose  than  he  had  ever  been  before. 

"  I'll  have  tea  andiread  and  butter/'  he  replied. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  room,  caressing  her  violin 
and  thrilling  each  note  in  an  endeavor  to  reach  his  ears, 
Miss  Shand  had  watched  them  with  comprehensive  glances. 
From  Nanno  herself,  though  she  had  often  tried,  she  had 
been  able  to  ascertain  nothing,  but  from  Nanno's  face,  as 
Jerningham  talked  to  her,  the  a?tute  Miss  Shand  had  seen 
the  indubitable  evidence  of  a  quarrel.  From  her  outlook  on 
life  she  made  her  calculations.  With  dexterous  intuition 
she  brought  the  figures  to  balance,  and  then,  as  her  violin, 
automatically  obeying  the  mechanism  of  her  fingers,  sighed 
sobbingly  through  the  sensuous  movements  of  a  popular 
waltz,  she  told  herself  sagaciously  to  wait  and  to  watch. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  his  tea-taking,  Jerningham  did 
not  notice  her.  He  had  forgotten  her  existence.  His  eyes 
rested  on  Xanno  wherever  she  went.  He  was  giving  her 
up.  He  was  breaking  in  his  mind  to  the  knowledge  that 
what  he  had  dreamed  was  a  dream ;  that  nothing,  save  the 
death  of  her  husband,  could  make  it  a  reality.  The 
thought  was  not  susceptible  to  taming,  and  he  was  not  an 
idealist  of  facts.  He  looked  the  truth  square  in  the  face. 


286  TRAFFIC. 

He  had  no  claim  on  her;  he  would  never  possess  any  claim. 
As  she  wandered  there  from  one  table  to  another,  a  person- 
ality filling  him  with  passion  as  unselfish  as  nature  can 
permit  it  to  be,  he  knew  that  she  was  nothing  to  him.  He 
could  not  touch  that  earth-brown  hair  of  hers — as  in  his 
imagination  he  had  so  frequently  done — and  call  it  his. 
Her  deep  gray  eyes,  like  stones  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a 
pool,  they  were  nothing  to  him ;  and  her  mouth,  those  full, 
human  lips,  always  half  parted,  ripe,  like  a  peach,  for  the 
kisses  that  in  his  dreams  of  her  he  had  so  often  devoured, 
all  these  were  as  the  golden  gates  of  Alexandria,  buried, 
he  knew  well  where,  but  buried,  be}rond  his  reach,  in  the 
fathoms  of  an  ocean  through  which  no  man  could  dive. 

When  he  called  her  for  his  bill,  he  was  inert  with  the 
struggle  through  which  he  had  passed. 

"  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  you  then,  Nanno  ?  " 
he  said,  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  she  replied.  She  felt  the  room  re- 
ceding from  her,  and  life  was  going  with  it. 

"  May  I  shake  hands  with  you  when  I  get  up  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  think  you'd  better  not." 

"Not  for  the  last  time?" 

"  I  think  you'd  better  not." 

"Then  come  down  to  the  Temple  this  evening  and  say 
good-bye  to  me  properly." 

"I  daren't." 

"You  daren't?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  you  must  shake  hands  now." 

He  stood  up  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  as  he  held  out  his  hand.  She 
took  it  timidly  with  hers.  He  seemed  a  long  way  away 
from  her  then.  Everything  was  getting  distant. 

"  God  take  care  of  you,"  he  whispered. 


TRAFFIC.  237 

She  said  nothing.  She  let  him  go.  She  heard  the 
swing  doors  close  to  as  he  went  out.  She  tidied  up  the 
table  that  he  had  left;  then  she  turned  and  walked  with 
a  peculiar  motion  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  attendants' 
dressing-room.  That  she  opened.  She  passed  through. 
She  had  scarcely  closed  it  when  she  fell.  One  of  the 
girls  found  her  there  later  in  the  afternoon.  They 
brought  her  to  as  shop  girls  will,  with  hysterical  excla- 
mations and  pattings  of  her  hand.  When  she  opened  her 
eyes  she  looked  as  though  she  had  been  away  in  search  of 
death,  returning  disappointed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Two  months  dragged  themselves  out.  Their  full  value 
of  time  lost  not  one  minute  to  Nanno.  There  is  no  such 
thing  as  Tune.  If  the  creatures  of  this  world  never 
died,  Time,  so  called,  would  never  have  been  invented. 
There  is  no  Time  before  we  are  born;  there  is  no  Time 
after  we  are  dead.  But  whilst  we  live  we  have  invented 
little  instruments  of  torture — chronometers,  sand-glasses 
— to  measure  out  our  span;  and  every  grain  of  sand  that 
falls  through  the  glass,  and  every  tick  of  the  pendulum  in 
the  clock,  we  call  Time.  But  our  own  conception  of  it 
differs  with  every  individual.  To  this  man  Time  is  long, 
to  that  Time  is  short.  So  even  we  ignore  the  accuracy 
of  the  inventions  that  we  ourselves  have  made.  To  Kanno 
the  period  seemed  eternal;  yet  to  Jamesy,  in  whose  con- 
ception London  had  become  a  place  of  pleasure,  the  mo- 
ments passed  impossible  to  count;  but  the  clock  in  the 
sitting-room,  with  its  gaudy-painted  face  and  its  hollow 
ticking  moved  none  the  faster  or  the  slower  for  what 
they  thought. 

For  the  first  week  or  so  Jamesy  was  always  at  home 
when  she  returned.  For  all  that  she  knew,  he  might 
have  been  there  all  day ;  but  she  did  not  ask  any  questions. 
It  did  not  matter  to  her. 

One  day  Mrs.  Randal  asked  her  where  her  husband 
worked. 

"He  doesn't  work,"  she  replied. 

"What,  not  of  a  daytime?" 

288 


TE  »* 


~  Where  does  he  take  his  meA  m  the  middle  of  the 

. 

zar  }\m  \rnnn  i 

k--  7-:   -:-::-  --    -ill  ^7   ::   Ja 

sh'jold  try  and  £nd  -ome  vork  to  do. 

nd  if  his 
.» ~_T-i    1-  M" .--.      -  -    ~    ;.  _ 

1-      --.T.         Ar     :'.     ~i±.     --.     --:.ll  '-rd     -^ 


I    :^    I::-'   :~    :-    z,-,      '     .-    1  •  ~   :-. 

*-!.*. 

foce  I  erne  wet— J  did  t»    wair  bt^oby  I  ^rt  fine  fcn»- 
dred  p»»A  for  iL    Fait^  it'll  he  tihe  (fiviTs  wn 

hefate  I  want  any  money." 

Ti'T   :z:  ::".i:.--   :!:i:    i""   :>J-  :^i-i    ::   ii" 

"-".i"  -  - 

:-:  v.:_  !„-    -;-  --        ill  -   :     :i—  l-.-^l;  : 
viii:    !i-f    i_  j:_:    ~_L~~-     :.  i:.      S_:    rj..l    z      _  :-f 


tkree  wwfci  hadl 

"  "-::.    -a:    -^-f     I.:    z:  VL,    : 

::  I:-;  i  .-::.-.  -If 


^-    -.- :.:i    -_:    -i?    j  .^   ::    :td    ,: 
fae  realized  wfai  Ms  staying  away 
-  aa  the  kter  days  at  GLal 
was  beoaning  haffdeacd.    SJie  did  ae 

1- 


290  TRAFFIC. 

pened  to  him  so  long  as  he  did  not  bring  his  viciousness 
into  contact  with  her  life. 

When  she  woke  in  the  morning,  it  was  to  find  the  bed 
beside  her  unoccupied.  Jamesy  had  been  away  all  night. 
She  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Eandal  when  she  brought  up 
the  breakfast;  but  that  virtuous  individual  was  not  pre- 
pared to  let  Nanno  go  to  work  while  her  curiosity  had 
an  empty  stomach. 

"  Where  was  yer  'usband  las'  night  ?  "  she  asked.  She 
was  waiting  in  the  passage  when  Xanno  came  downstairs 
on  her  way  to  business.  "  Why  didn't  'e  come  'ome  ?  " 

"  He  had  to  stay  away  last  night,"  she  said.  She  would 
give  no  further  information,  and  after  she  had  closed 
the  door,  Mrs.  Eandal  discussed  the  matter  aloud  with 
herself  for  at  least  half  an  hour. 

Jamesy  had  returned  when  she  came  back  in  the  even- 
ing. He  could  not  look  her  in  the  face. 

"  'Twas  the  way  I  met  a  friend  last  night,"  he  began 
awkwardly. 

For  a  moment  Nanno  felt  satirically  inclined  to  lead 
him  on  to  expatiate  about  the  friend;  but  the  growing 
callousness  of  her  mind  put  the  idea  aside. 

So  the  days  became  weeks,  the  weeks  accumulated  un- 
til the  two  months  had  passed.  Every  day  her  powers 
of  feeling  became  more  blunted,  less  defined;  the  fine 
edge  of  a  blade  that  loses  keenness  with  every  coarse 
stroke;  yet  there  grew  steadily  within  her  the  knowledge 
that  the  end  of  her  duty  to  the  Church  was  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer.  The  priest  who  had  advised  her  to 
recall  her  husband,  would  soon  be  compelled  to  admit  that 
his  advice  was  useless.  Then,  in  one  day,  the  climax  came 
with  its  torrent,  as  the  drops  of  rain  that  slowly  merge 
together  on  the  window-pane,  and  finally  tumble  down 
their  own  weight  upon  the  sill. 


TRAFFIC.  291 

Arriving  one  morning  at  the  restaurant,  Mr.  Mossop 
presented  her  with  a  letter. 

"It's  not  customary — in  fact,  I  may  say  it's  against 
the  rules,"  he  said,  "  for  any  of  our  young  ladies  to  give 
the  Stores  as  an  address." 

"  I  have  not  done  so,"  she  replied  quickly. 

"  Oh ! — then,  rather  than  get  you  into  trouble,  I'll  say 
nothing  about  it — d'you  see — I'll  say  nothing  about  it." 

"  Thank  you  very  much."  She  took  the  letter  that 
he  was  reluctantly  holding  out  for  her. 

"  And  how  are  you  now,  Nanno  ?  "  he  asked,  wishing 
to  ^make  the  best  of  the  advantage  of  his  generosity. 
"  You  haven't  looked  at  all  up  to  the  mark  since  that 
day  you  fainted  in  the  dressing-room — not  at  all  up  to 
the  mark.  Feeling  so-so  I  expect?" 

"  I  don't  feel  very  well." 

"  Been  to  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  now,  there's  a  very  good  man  attends  me — 
he's  quite  Al,  what  I  mean,  'e'd  make  his  mark  in  Harley 
Street.  I've  often  said  so  to  him.  Of  course,  he's  not 
an  M.D.  and  that's  against  him.  He's  only  L.K.C.P. — 
M.R.C.S.,  and  some  people  make  the  mistake  when  they 
see  that  on  his  plate  that  he's  only  a  veterinary  surgeon. 
Supposin'  I  send  him  along  to  see  you.  He's  extremely 
reasonable — what  I  mean  to  say,  he  won't  charge  more 
than  half-a-crown  if  he  thinks  you  couldn't  afford  it." 

Believing  her  letter  to  be  from  Jerningham,  Kanno 
could  scarcely  control  her  impatience  to  get  away  from  this 
garrulous  man;  yet  she  knew  that  it  would  be  impolitic 
to  show  her  lack  of  interest. 

"  I  don't  think  I  really  want  to  see  a  doctor,"  she  said, 
crumpling  her  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug  descriptive  of  his 


292  TRAFFIC. 

belief  that  he  was  the  wiser  of  the  two.  "  It  isn't  because 
Dr.  Fincham  attends  me,  that  he  isn't  a  lady's  man." 

He  smiled.  He  thought  that  there  he  had  found  the 
weak  spot  in  her  refusal.  Thinking  still  more  concretely, 
he  shook  his  head  in  a  playful  manner  that  made  him 
look  like  a  mechanical  toy,  and  departed. 

Nanno  went  immediately  to  the  dressing-room  and  tore 
open  the  envelope.  Had  she  not  been  so  hasty,  she  might 
have  noticed  that  fingers  had  been  engaged  at  the  flap  be- 
fore hers.  The  sleek  Mr.  Mossop,  in  fact,  believing 
the  letter  to  have  come  from  an  admirer,  had  tried  to 
force  it  with  gentle  persuasion.  But  Jerningham  was  not 
a  man  who  licked  envelopes  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
and  it  had  remained  impervious  to  his  effort. 

"My  Nanno,"  it  began,  and  when  she  saw  the  words, 
she  put  it  down  for  a  moment  and  let  the  lump  that  had 
risen  in  her  throat  break  into  the  tears  in  her  eyes. 


"  MY 

"  This  is  not  written  as  a  temptation  to  you.  Con- 
sider that  all  temptation  is  past,  and  let  me  say  good-bye 
to  you  here  without  the  ghastly  dinning  of  Miss  Shand's 
violin  in  my  ears  or  the  clattering  of  teacups.  I  want 
you  to  think  —  I  want  you  to  believe  that  what  you  have 
made  in  me  is  made  for  all  time.  I  don't  believe  I  am 
a  marrying  man.  I  mean  that,  losing  you,  I  shall  not 
just  get  over  it  in  the  ordinary  way,  and  then  look  out  for 
some  one  else.  Some  one  else  would  not  do.  I  could  have 
made  proposals  to  you  other  than  those  of  marriage 
which,  perhaps  I  am  utterly  wrong  in  thinking,  that 
loving  me  as  you  do,  you  would  not  have  hated  me  for. 
I  could  possibly  have  made  such  proposals  to  any  other 
woman  —  looking  in  your  eyes,  I  could  not  have  clone  so  to 
you.  I  suppose,  to  an  extent,  I  am  old-fashioned.  I  be- 


TRAFFIC.  293 

lieve  in  marriage;  though  to  look  at  it  in  your  instance, 
almost  shatters  my  belief.  But  I  don't  look  at  it  in  your 
instance — I  only  look  at  it  as  it  would  be  with  you  and 
me.  Supposing  you  were  to  come  to  me  while  he  was  still 
alive  and  tell  me  you  could  not  live  alone,  I  should  take 
you  in  with  all  my  heart  and  never  think  one  thought  of 
blame  of  you — but  I  could  not  ask  you  to  do  so  myself. 
Should  it  ever  happen  that  you  want  a  home  while  he 
is  still  alive,  what  I  have  is  yours  for  the  asking.  I  say 
this :  I  put  it  in  this  way  because  I  can  never  forget  how 
I  have  in  these  last  few  months  been  urging  you  to  some- 
thing which  in  your  eyes  is  a  sin.  I  will  never  do  that 
again,  and  this  instance  which  I  cite  here  now — I  sup- 
pose— I  don't  know  the  laws  of  your  Church — but  I 
suppose  that  that  would  be  a  greater  sin.  I  could  not 
make  you  sin,  Xanno.  You  are  only  meant  for  the 
praise  and  pleasure  of  the  God  who  made  you.  And  so 
I  see  I  am  wrong  even  in  saying  that  I  would  take  you 
in  if  you  should  come  and  ask  me.  I  would  not  take 
you  in.  I  would  not.  Whatever  I  have  is  yours,  but  I 
must  take  nothing  that  I  long  for  from  you.  And  so 
good-bye — good-bye,  my  Xanno." 

This  was  a  piece  out  of  Jerningham's  heart.  The 
lancet  of  circumstance,  keen-edged  as  a  reed,  had  probed 
to  depths  that  he  had  been  unaware  of,  bringing  away 
with  it,  when  its  incision  had  been  complete,  an  ex- 
pression of  himself  which  his  friends,  still  nicknaming 
him  "the  bachelor,"  would  not  have  recognized,  would 
not  have  believed. 

Xanno  put  the  letter  to  her  lips.  Her  tears  fell  on 
its  characters.  The  ink  of  the  writing  mingled  with 
them.  How  was  she  to  go  back  to  the  sordidness  of  her 
home,  when  in  life  there  was  a  man  who  loved  her  like 


294:  TRAFFIC. 

this?  She  asked  herself  that  question  with  everything 
she  did.  In  all  the  carrying  out  of  her  duty  during  the 
day  she  put  the  question  to  herself.  When  she  went  up  to 
the  counter  to  demand  tea  for  a  customer,  when  she  ap- 
proached her  customers  to  inquire  what  they  wanted, 
that  question  looked  defiantly  out  of  her  eyes.  But  by 
the  evening  the  defiance  vanished.  As  she  walked  home, 
she  read  the  letter  through  once  more;  stopping  for  a 
few  moments  under  the  gas-lamps,  lest  standing  under  one 
until  it  was  finished,  she  might  seem  conspicuous.  It 
was  the  fruitless  end  of  it  all.  When  she  had  read  it  for 
the  fourth  time  she  realized  that;  but  it  in  no  way 
lessened  the  hideousness  of  that  to  which  she  was  return- 
ing. 

She  had  scarcely  finished  pulling  the  bell  of  the  house 
when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Randal  stood  before  her. 
She  was  wiping  her  hands  with  vicious  movements,  and 
the  attitude  which  she  assumed,  aggressively  barring  the 
way,  brought  into  Nanno's  mind  at  once  the  apprehension 
that  something  had  occurred  in  her  absence.  She  felt 
afraid  to  ask  her  what  it  was,  but  the  irate  landlady  had 
no  intention  of  keeping  her  ignorant.  She  took  a  deep 
breath  at  once  and,  at  the  sight  of  Nanno's  expectant  face, 
her  lips  became  thin  and  white  with  the  remembrance  of 
how — as  she  would  have  described  it  herself — she  had 
been  put  out. 

"  P'r'aps  you'd  like  to  know  where  your  husband  is," 
she  said,  closing  the  door  and  facing  Nanno  in  the  pas- 
sage. 

A  dread  that  was  nauseating  made  her  limbs  seem 
weak  and  powerless  to  support  her.  She  leaned  up 
against  the  wall,  looking  piteously  at  the  woman  who  con- 
sidered herself  so  infinitely  much  more  injured  than 
Nanno  herself,  who  as  yet  knew  nothing. 


TRAFFIC.  295 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  bewildered — "  what's  hap- 
pened?" 

Mrs.  Eandal  folded  her  arms  and,  for  a  moment, 
seemed  to  permit  herself  to  be  inwardly  consumed  by  a 
living  crater  of  wrath :  the  convulsions  of  its  burning  con- 
torted her  face. 

"  Mind  yer,  if  I  don't  just  pack  yer  out  of  the  'ouse 
the  moment  what  yer  come  in,  it's  because  I'm  a  mar- 
ried woman  myself,  and  it  don't  need  a  drop  o'  gin  to  make 
me  feel  sympathetic  to  others  what's  in  trouble." 

Nanno  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Randal?"  she  pleaded.  "Where  is 
he?" 

"Well — if  you  was  to  arst  me  I  should  say  'e  was  fast 
asleep  in  Bow  Street." 

"Where's  that?" 

"  Well,  it's  a  lock-up,  but  I  couldn't  tell  you  exactly 
the  whereabouts  of  it.  I  ain't  been  there  myself." 

"He's  in  jail?" 

"  Where  'e  ought  to  be." 

"  But  what's  he  done  ?  " 

"  Well — this  is  what  'e's  done."  She  blew  her  nose  with 
her  apron,  preparatory  to  a  long  story.  "  I  brought  Mm 
up  'is  breakfast  this  morning  after  you'd  gone,  and  when 
I  come  to  clear  away  the  things  about  an  hour  later — 'e'd 
gone  out.  I'd  never  'eard  'im,  because  I  said  to  myself — 
noticin'  a  little  bit,,  o'  bacon  what  Vd  left  on  his  plate — 
'  I  wonder  what  she'd  say ' — meanin'  you — '  if  she  see'd 
'ow  wasteful  'e  was,'  I  said,  and  I  shouldn't  'ave  said  that 
if  'e'd  been  there."  So  far  her  remarks  were  too  obvious 
to  be  explicit,  but  she  labored  on.  "  When  I  found  'e 
didn't  come  in  to  'is  dinner  at  one  o'clock,  I  went  out 
myself  and  I  told  Annie,  my  youngest  girl,  to  look  after 
the  door  if  any  gne  came."  Here  she  turned  her  head 


296  TRAFFIC. 

in  the  direction  of  the  remote  parts  of  the  house  and 
cried  "  Annie !  "  with  a  strident  voice  that  seemed  to  tear 
the  membrane  of  her  throat.  Twice  she  repeated  the 
cry.  At  last  a  little  girl  opened  the  door  at  the  end  of 
the  passage. 

"  Come  'ere!"  Mrs.  Eandal  exclaimed  peremptorily. 

Well  knowing  what  was  expected  of  her,  the  child  sidled 
towards  them. 

"  What  time  did  'e  come  in  this  afternoon  ? "  she  was 
asked. 

"  'Arf-past  four,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  with  a  voice 
that  was  her  mother's  in  a  higher  octave. 

"  And  who  was  with  'im  ?  " 

"  The  barmaid  from  the  *  Three  Crowns.' ': 

Mrs.  Eandal  looked  expectantly  at  Nanno  to  see  the 
effect  of  this  dramatic  announcement.  Dramatic  it  still 
was  to  her,  though  she  had  heard  it  from  the  child's 
lips  at  least  twenty  times  before.  But  Nanno  only  leaned 
up  against  the  wall.  Her  breath  did  not  come  any  the 
faster;  her  heart  beat  none  the  quicker.  Mrs.  Eandal  did 
not  know  the  previous  experiences  which  had  inured  her 
against  the  horribleness  of  such  information.  She  had 
not  guessed  how  little  events,  little  circumstances,  during 
the  last  two  months,  had  been  leading  Nanno  to  the  ex- 
pectation of  such  a  crisis.  The  knowledge  that  frequently, 
on  her  return  in  the  evening,  he  had  been  taking  more 
than  he  could  stand  in  the  way  of  alcohol;  the  remem- 
brance of  that  night  when  he  had  not  returned  at  all; 
these  and  a  lot  of  other  smaller  facts  had  all  combined 
to  prepare  her  mind  for  the  climax  which  she  fully  real- 
ized was  inevitable.  Now  it  had  come.  He  had  proved 
his  utter  worthlessness.  He  had  shown  the  hopeless  futil- 
ity of  their  lives  being  continued  together.  But  if  Mrs. 
Eandal  had  expected  that  the  knowledge  of  it  would  shame 


TRAFFIC..  89? 

Xanno  so  that  she  could  not  raise  her  head,  she  was  mis- 
taken. It  has  been  said  before  in  this  chapter  that  the 
truth  in  life  to  a  woman  who  has  been  robbed  of  her 
powers  of  idealization  is  degrading.  It  had  degraded 
Xanno.  She  felt  no  shame.  In  the  eyes  of  God,  where 
all  marriages  were  made,  this  man  was  her  husband  ;  but 
so  utterly  had  he  made  his  existence  separate  from  hers 
that  she  felt  no  disgrace  in  the  evil  that  he  did. 

"My  Gawd! — 'aven't  yer  anything  to  say  to  that?" 
Mrs.  Randal  exclaimed,  when  she  had  watched  Xanno's 
face  in  vain  for  some  sign  of  feeling. 

Xanno  shook  her  head. 

''  What  did  he  say  to  yer ! "  Mrs.  Randal  then  con- 
tinued in  her  examination  of  the  child.  "  'Ow  did  'e 
explain  what  ?e  was  doin'  in  the  'ouse  with,  that ?  " 

"  'E  said,  '  Is  my  wife  in  ? '  'e  says." 

"Well ?" 

" '  No,'  I  says,  '  she  ain't.'  '  Well,  this  'ere,'  he  says, 
*is  a  friend  of  'ers,  she's  comin'  in  'ere  to  wait  till  she 
comes  in,'  he  says." 

"  Go  on !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Randal,  anxious  to  arrive 
at  that  part  of  the  story  where  she  herself  had  taken 
an  active  part. 

"  Well — they  went  upstairs  then  and  I  didn't  see  no 
more  of  'em — 'cept  what  I  'eard." 

"What  did  yer  'ear?" 

"  Singin'  and  laughin' — same  way  as  father  sings  on 
Saturday  night." 

Mrs.  Randal  dismissed  her  daughter  with  a  well-directed 
blow,  lest  other  domestic  details  might  fall  from  the 
mouth  of  babes. 

"Well— what  dyer  think  of  that  now?"  she  asked, 
when  Annie  had  closed  the  kitchen  door.  "  In  my  'ouse, 
what  'as  always  'ad  the  name  of  bein'  'ighly  respectable. 


298  TRAFFIC. 

Singin'  and  laughin' — drunk  they  were.  When  I  come 
back,  the  place  was  like  a  music-'all.  I  don't  want  to 
'urt  your  feelin's.  God  in  'evin  knows,  we  women  'ave 
to  put  up  with  a  deal  more  than  we  oughter.  But  when 
I  come  in  and  Annie  told  me  what  was  a-goin'  on  up- 
stairs well,  I  just  crep'  up  to  the  door  and,  God  forgive 
me  that  I  should  be  tellin'  yer  " — Mrs.  Eandal  just  gloried 
in  the  telling — "  but  I've  always  said  as  'ow  you  were  a 
cut  above  'im.  Well — I  crep'  up  to  the  door  and  as  shure 
as  I'm  standin'  'ere  I  'card  'im  lovey-doveyin'  'er.  I 
didn't  go  in.  I've  got  some  sense  of  decency,  I  'ave.  No 
— I  didn't  go  in — I  knocked  at  the  door.  '  Will  yer  come 
outside  'ere,  Mr.  Kyan  ? '  I  says ;  and  then  the  singin' 
stopped,  like  as  if  I'd  clapped  me  'and  on  their  mouths. 
After  a  minute  the  door  opened  an'  'e  came  out.  Well — 
Gawd  knows  I  don't  want  to  be  exageratin',  my  dear — but 
'e  was  drunk — filthy — 'e  was.-  I  didn't  say  nuffin' — I  just 
went  downstairs,  out  of  the  'ouse,  an'  I  got  a  policeman 
— one  as  I  knows  myself  on  'is  beat.  Well — I  won't  re- 
peat the  langwidge  'e  used  " — she  lifted  her  hands  and 
her  eyes  towards  heaven,  represented  by  a  dirty  ceiling. 
"  Anyway,"  she  concluded,  "  'e's  in  Bow  Street  now,  where 
you  can  see  'im  if  you  like." 

To  all  this  story  Nanno  had  said  nothing.  With  her 
head  against  the  varnished  yellow  paper  of  the  wall,  she  lis- 
tened to  it  all,  as  the  picture  of  a  dead  man  might  listen  to 
the  importunate  cries  of  his  living  wife.  Mrs.  Eandal 
waited  for  a  few  moments  after  she  had  finished,  to  see 
whether  Nanno  had  anything  to  reply,  then  she  came  to 
the  gist  of  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

"I'm  sorry  to  'ave  to  do  it,"  she  said,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  her  face,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  shall  'ave  to 
ask  yer  to  find  lodgin's  elsewhere.  When  the  street  gets 
to  'ear  of  this  I  shall  lose  my  reputation,  and  it'll  take 


TRAFFIC.  299 

me  some  time  to  get  it  back  again,  'less  I  can  say  as  'ow 
I  packed  yer  horff — d'yer  see." 

Nanno  looked  at  her. 

"I'll  go  up  and  pack  my  things,"  she  said  unemotion- 
ally. 

"  Well  you  needn't  go  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Eandal. 

"I'm  going  at  once,"  Nanno  replied. 


BOOK  V. 

THE  UNLIFTED  HAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  laws  of  Traffic  are  inexorable.  The  business  of 
life  cannot  come  to  a  standstill  for  this  horse  that  falls 
dead  between  the  shafts  or  for  that  driver  that  drops 
in  death  from  his  seat.  Move  on — move  on — is  the  con- 
tinual cry,  and  the  rumble  of  all  the  vehicles  in  the  world 
is  incessant.  Should  a  horse  fall,  or  a  driver  drop  the 
reins,  will  the  Traffic  stop?  Never.  Around  the  obstacle 
that  bars  its  way,  the  ever-flowing  stream  will  bifur- 
cate with  the  inevitable  precision  of  the  mill-race  that  is 
divided  by  the  fallen  branch.  Sometimes  a  passenger  in 
passing  will  look  down  at  the  silent  body  and  the  rigid 
legs;  others  will  turn  away,  preferring  not  to  be  reminded 
of  the  fate  that  awaits  them  farther  down  the  road;  but 
no  one  ever  stops;  the  Traffic  surges  on.  In  a  few 
hours  that  purchaser  of  the  dead  will  come  from  nowhere 
with  his  cart.  The  body  will  be  lifted  on  to  the  ready 
board.  The  driver  will  whip  up  his  horse  with  a  jest — his 
horse  that,  maybe,  carrying  the  dead,  will  fall  between 
the  shafts  itself — and  the  cart  will  rumble  back  to  no- 
where from  whence  it  came,  with  its  freight  of  death; 
the  protruding  head  wagging  aimlessly,  the  stiffened  legs 
jolting  like  two  sticks.  Then  the  Traffic  will  pass  on  over 
the  same  spot,  and  the  mark  of  what  happened  there  will 
be  gone  forever. 

What  if  the  Traffic  become  congested?  What  if  the 
crowd  surge  into  one  spot,  the  wheels  be  interlocked  and, 

303 


304  TRAFFIC. 

at  a  cross  roads,  prevent  the  progress  of  those  coming  in 
another  direction?  What  then? 

There,  at  those  corners  in  Life,  you  will  find  one,  who, 
in  his  uniform  of  the  law,  controls  the  Traffic  in  his 
charge.  There  are  many  such  corners  to  be  met  with,  and 
many  wear  the  uniform  of  power.  By  the  raising  of  his 
hand  or  the  nodding  of  his  head  he  can  let  this  vehicle 
pass  on,  and  delay  that  at  his  will.  He  obeys  a  great 
design,  but  the  discretion  that  he  uses  is  his  own. 

Then  to  what  type  of  man  is  given  such  colossal  right  ? 
Is  he  part  human,  part  divine?  Does  the  great  despot 
for  whom  he  works  instil  into  him  some  of  his  own  omnis- 
cience? No.  He  is  as  much  a  man  as  that  carter  who, 
being  allowed  to  pass  on  by  the  motioning  hand,  turns 
in  his  seat  and  jeers  at  those  delayed  behind.  He  is  as 
human  as  that. 

Supposing,  then,  his  discretion  be  wrong?  Supposing 
his  judgment  at  fault?  From  one  day  to  another  he 
may  direct  the  Traffic  right;  yet,  in  a  moment,  he  might 
cast  into  utter  destruction  this  vehicle  or  that  which  must 
obey  his  will.  What  is  the  whole  of  Traffic  to  such  a 
vehicle,  when  its  own  destruction  is  wrought  by  his  un- 
yielding hand  ? 

There  is  no  answer. 

The  stream  still  swells  on  its  flood.  The  wheels  still 
grind;  the  whips  still  crack.  You  must  be  driven  into 
the  wall  of  damnation  in  order  that  those  of  your  neigh- 
bors may  pass  by  unscathed.  But  what  is  that  to  you? 
There  is  a  voice  that  answers  out  of  the  East — "  It  is 
the  law." 


For  the  second  time,  Nanno  left  her  husband.     Her 


TRAFFIC.  305 

life  was  her  own,  she  argiied;  and,  if  she  might  not  do 
with  it  as  she  wished,  the  liberty  to  dissociate  it  with 
that  which  was  degrading  at  least  remained  with  her. 

Jamesy  had  never  questioned  where  she  worked.  She 
had  never  told  him.  So  long  as  she  had  brought  back 
with  her  the  substance  of  his  living,  he  did  not  mind.  It 
had  not  interested  him.  When  therefore  she  returned 
to  the  old  rooms  in  the  Fulham  Road,  going  as  usual 
each  day  to  the  restaurant,  she  knew  that  she  was  free  from 
discovery.  In  the  labyrinths  of  London  she  was  certain 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  one  of  his  experience  to 
penetrate  into  her  seclusion,  and  she  felt  sure  that  when 
he  was  free  he  would  return  to  Ireland,  well  knowing 
that,  in  leaving  no  clue  to  her  whereabouts,  she  had  taken 
her  life  into  her  own  hands  as  she  had  done  before. 

The  relief  of  being  once  again  by  herself  and  in  the 
place  which  held  only  the  happiest  of  her  recollections 
was  continually  present  with  her.  She  decorated  her  room 
just  as  it  had  been  before.  The  same  picture  of  the  Sa- 
cred Heart  she  hung  on  its  nail — which  had  never  been  re- 
moved— over  the  bed.  With  only  herself  to  support,  her 
circumstances  seemed  suddenly  to  have  assumed  an  afflu- 
ence that  was  like  the  realization  of  a  dream  of  wealth. 
She  put  money  away  at  meager  interest  in  the  Post  Office 
Savings  Bank;  and  Mrs.  Hudson,  always  having  an  affec- 
tion for  her  because  of  the  quietness  of  her  living  and  her 
gentle  voice,  welcomed  her  back  as  though  she  were  a 
child  of  her  own. 

Of  Jerningham,  she  saw  nothing.  He  had  gone  out  of 
her  life,  and  all  that  she  retained  of  him  was  the  letter 
which  she  had  received  at  the  restaurant.  She  dared 
not  go  and  see  him  again.  This  second  catastrophe  had 
weakened  her  determination  to  obey,  and  she  knew  that 
if  she  were  once  more  to  come  into  the  atmosphere  of  his 
20 


306  TRAFFIC. 

influence,  she  could  not  maintain  the  strength  that  she 
had  shown  before. 

But  life  was  incomparably  happier  than  it  had  been. 
There  was  no  fear  to  be  felt  in  the  returning  home.  Mrs. 
Hudson  always  had  a  comfortable  meal  prepared  for  her. 
She  gave  her  back  the  possession  of  the  latchkey;  that 
same,  heavy  weight  of  metal  which  began  again  to  wear 
the  holes  in  her  pocket. 

When  the  first  tremble  of  anticipation  that  at  any  turn 
of  a  street  she  might  meet  Jamesy  had  worn  away,  she 
settled  down  to  a  more  contented  outlook  on  life.  There 
was  time  for  reading  again.  Her  Saturday  afternoons 
and  her  Sundays  were  once  more  holidays,  not  days  of  pen- 
ance and  terror.  And  with  this  growing  feeling  of  nega- 
tive happiness,  she  knew  that  she  had  done  right  in  pur- 
suing the  course  which  she  had  adopted. 

Even  at  this  hour,  there  was  left  the  hope  of  making 
amends  in  her  life  for  all  the  wretchedness  and  disappoint- 
ment that  had  preceded  it;  but  her  destiny  as  yet  had 
not  begun  the  weaving  of  its  last  pattern  on  the  loom. 

Five  weeks  after  her  departure  from  Jamesy,  the  hand 
of  nature  fastened  about  her  with  its  unerring  grip.  As 
one  day  followed  another,  she  felt  its  fingers  sinking  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  humanity  of  her  flesh.  Then,  when 
all  hope  had  been  choked,  when  realization  had  donned  the 
black  cap  of  certainty,  she  knew  that  she  was  to  be  a 
mother  once  more.  The  curse  of  Eve  had  pursued  her, 
overtaking  her  just  as  her  steps  were  free,  just  as  she  saw 
before  her  the  silent,  far-stretching  road  of  content. 

Then  the  horizon  altered.  The  faint  gray  of  a  peace- 
ful sky  was  swept  with  ugly  clouds.  She  saw  nothing 
but  the  hopeless  inevitability  of  the  storm  through  which 
she  knew  she  must  pass;  and  what  lay  on  the  other  side 


TRAFFIC.  '  307 

was  totally  obscured  in  the  shadow  of  that  which  was 
gathering  around  her. 

When  first  she  realized  it,  she  lay  on  her  bed,  her  face 
buried  in  the  pillows  and  the  hot  tears  soaking  into  their 
texture.  For  a  while  she  raged  against  it,  crying  im- 
portunately as  will  a  child  who  has  been  denied  its  dear- 
est wish.  The  last  five  weeks  seemed  unsurpassable  in 
their  happiness,  compared  to  what  awaited  her.  If  the 
thought  of  appealing  to  Jamesy  in  her  trouble  ever  entered 
her  head,  it  was  with  a  shudder  of  repugnance  and  disgust. 
The  fact  that  it  was  his  child  as  well  as  her  own  had  no 
place  in  her  reasoning.  She  felt  she  was  utterly  alone. 

Then  she  sat  up,  her  hair  disheveled  about  her  face 
and  stared  before  her  at  nothing.  Her  eyes  smarted  with 
their  tears.  Her  lips  felt  swollen  and  her  face  burning  to 
her  forehead.  But  she  seemed  unconscious  of  everything. 
After  a  few  moments  she  rose  and  paced  the  room,  going  to 
the  mirror  on  the  dressing-table  and  looking  for  some 
minutes  at  her  face  without  realizing  how  piteous  she 
seemed. 

At  last  a  desperate  hope  that  she  might  be  wrong,  she 
might  have  made  a  mistake,  cheered  her.  She  dried  her 
eyes,  making  up  her  mind  to  wait. 

The  hope  yielded  nothing.  When  a  few  more  weeks 
had  passed,  during  which  she  had  striven  to  occupy  her 
thoughts  with  other  things,  the  truth  was  forced  upon 
her.  The  same  scene  occurred  once  more  and,  passing 
through  the  sitting-room  by  her  door,  Mrs.  Hudson  heard 
the  sounds  of  her  passionate  weeping. 

Hesitating  for  a  moment,  she  at  last  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in. 

"  Why,  my  goodness !  "  she  exclaimed,  coming  forward. 

Nanno  sat  up  hurriedly  and  tried  to  dry  her  eyes. 

"What  hever's  the  matter?" 


308  TRAFFIC. 

Nanno  shook  her  head.     "  Nothing,"  she  said  weakly. 

Mrs.  Hudson  was  not  prepared  to  be  satisfied  with  that. 
She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  in  front  of  her  with  her 
hands  on  her  massive  hips. 

"  What's  been  'appenin'  to  yer  ?  "  she  persisted. 

Xanno  shook  her  head  again,  but  said  nothing.  She 
tried  to  rise  to  her  feet  and  pass  by  Mrs.  Hudson  to  the 
dressing-table,  but  the  landlady  laid  her  hands  on  her 
shoulder — she  was  not  afraid  of  trouble.  She  would  ad- 
mit, quite  openly,  to  any  one  in  the  most  casual  conver- 
sation that  she  had  had  her  share  of  it.  And  with  ISTanno, 
she  felt  interested ;  which  is  a  kinder  way  of  saying  that  a 
woman  is  curious.  There  was  not  a  great  deal  of  life 
that  she  had  not  seen  from  her  point  of  view,  and  she 
knew  by  unconscious  experience  that  a  girl  does  not  cry 
when  there  is  no  one  to  see  or  to  affect  unless  she  has  very 
serious  reasons  for  it.  She  was,  moreover,  with  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  quite  prepared  to  guess  what  those  rea- 
sons were,  and  in  her  own  way,  which,  when  handled  by  a 
woman,  is  wonderfully  efficacious,  she  proceeded  to  do 
so. 

"  I  guess  that  Mr.  Mossop  'as  been  worrying  yer  again," 
she  began — "  I  never  did  like  the  looks  of  'im  when  'e  came 
'ere  that  Sunday.  He  ain't  the  best  type  of  man  because 
Vs  under  a  silk  'at.  A  brother  o'  mine  was  a  hundertaker 
and  wore  a  top  'at  most  days  of  'is  life;  but  'e  was  the 
biggest  blackguard  I  hever  saw.  It  is  Mr.  Mossop — isn't 
it  ? "  she  added  cunningly,  fully  believing  that  it  was 
not.  "  When  first  you  told  me  'e  was  hover  you  in  the 
restaurant,  I  said  to  my  'usband — 'Jest  you  wait  and  see,' 
I  says.  Now,  what's  'e  been  doin  '  ?  " 

Nanno  shook  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  nothing !  "  she  exclaimed  vehemently.  "  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Mossop."  . 


TRAFFIC.  309 

Mrs.  Hudson  nodded  her  head  satisfactorily.  This  was 
one  possibility  eliminated  from  those  which  she  had  in  her 
mind.  If  it  was  not  Mr.  Mossop,  then  the  suggestion 
that  it  was  the  other  visitor,  whose  name  she  had  for- 
gotten, might  find  an  echo  or  induce  her  to  tell  the  real 
truth.  She  was  firmly  convinced  that  a  man  lay  beneath 
it  all.  She  knew  men  thoroughly.  She  had  married  one. 

With  a  few  tentative  preliminaries  then,  she  made  the 
second  suggestion,  and  this  Nanno  refuted  as  emphatically 
as  the  first. 

"But  there  is  some  man?"  Mrs.  Hudson  declared,  for 
a  moment  at  a  loss.  "  Come  now,"  she  continued  in  a 
motherly  tone  of  voice — "  'as  'e  jilted  yer — 'as  'e — 'as  'e  ?  " 

Nanno  remained  silent  and,  with  a  subtle  intuition, 
knowing  that  the  girl  would  admit  such  a  position  when 
asked  with  such  kindness  as  Mrs.  Hudson  had  shown,  she 
arrived  with  a  sudden  bound  of  her  imagination  in  the 
region  of  the  truth. 

"  'As  'e  got  yer  into  trouble  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  whisper 
— "  'as  'e  got  yer  into  trouble  and  then  'ooked  off  ?  " 

Nanno  buried  her  head  again  in  the  pillow.  The  knowl- 
edge that  in  another  moment  she  would  be  compelled, 
from  the  sheer  desire  to  ease  her  mind,  to  tell  Mrs.  Hud- 
son everything,  completely  overcame  her. 

The  landlady  stood  erect  for  a  moment,  as  though  to 
take  breath  after  her  exertion.  She  knew  that  she  had 
found  the  kernel  of  it  all;  the  same  poor  withered  fruit 
that  lies  within  nearly  every  shell  of  despair  and  remorse, 
with  which  so  many  women's  lives  are  clothed.  She 
shook  her  head  as  she  looked  at  Nanno's  body,  convulsing 
with  the  sobs  that  were  shaking  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  And  'e  won't  marry  yer — eh — isn't  that  it,  'e  won't 
marry  yer  ?  " 

"  I  am  married !  "  Nanno  exclaimed  suddenly,  in  her 


310  TRAFFIC. 

own  defense — "  I  am  married !  "  she  repeated,  and  her 
words  were  muffled  with  the  pillow  at  her  mouth. 

"  You  are  married  ?  "  Mrs.  Hudson  cried.  "  Well,  my 
Gawd !  'ow  you  do  surprise  me.  What  are  yer  cry  in'  about 
then?" 

Nanno  told  her  everything. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

IF  there  is  ever  a  time  when  Life  can  be  said  to  be 
like  a  man  in  whose  footsteps  death  follows,  running  when 
he  runs,  walking  when  he  walks,  stopping  when  he  stops; 
then,  during  the  next  few  months,  Life  was  as  that  to 
Nanno. 

The  hour  would  come,  she  knew,  when  she  would  require 
every  penny  that  she  could  scrape  together.  The  deter- 
mination, then,  to  save  everything  that  she  could  spare, 
was  a  natural  consequence.  But  there  was  as  yet  another 
point  for  consideration.  As  soon  as  her  condition  be- 
came apparent,  she  knew  that  she  would  be  dismissed 
from  the  restaurant.  Then,  for  the  time  being  at 
least  and  until  her  child  was  born,  she  could  not  hope 
to  obtain  another  situation.  How  long  dared  she  take 
the  risk  in  order  to  save  the  sum  which  she  considered 
necessary?  Affluent  though  her  circumstances  had  seemed 
to  be  when  first  she  came  back  to  the  Fulham  Eoad,  they 
now  appeared  in  a  very  different  light.  Ten  shillings 
or  twelve  at  the  utmost  saved  every  week  will  not  ac- 
cumulate in  a  few  months  to  anything  of  importance. 
But  the  eternal  hope  that  she  was  true  to  her  faith  and 
that  therein  lay  the  help  that  she  most  needed,  persuaded 
her  to  trust  the  God  of  Providence  too  implicitly. 

One  day  she  found  the  superintendent's  glance  criti- 
cizing her.  The  cold  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  An  ill-bred 
relentlessness  lay  like  a  shadow  on  her  face.  Nanno  felt 
the  blood  running  like  cold  water  through  her  veins.  With 

311 


312  TRAFFIC. 

the  first  opportunity  that  offered,  she  hurried  to  the  at- 
tendants' dressing-room,  and  with  pathetic  attitudes 
studied  herself  in  the  glass. 

She  had  trusted  too  much.  She  had  been  deceived 
by  hope  and  the  desire  to  be  earning  money  as  long  as 
possible.  The  tears  came  quietly  into  her  eyes  when  she 
thought  of  the  twenty  pounds  or  so  that  she  had  put 
away  in  the  Savings  Bank.  For  some  weeks  to  come  she 
knew  that  she  would  be  unable  to  earn  any  more.  And 
how  long  would  twenty  pounds  last?  Only  a  few  weeks 
— no  longer. 

When  the  day  was  over,  Mr.  Mossop  called  her  aside. 
She  followed  him  with  her  head  erect. 

"I'm  sorry  to  tell  you,  Miss  Troy,"  he  said,  in  a  tone 
of  righteousness,  "that  we  shall  not  require  your  services 
any  longer.  You  will  be  given  a  week's  wages  and  your 
place  will  be  filled  to-morrow." 

Nanno  put  her  hand  to  her  eyes. 

"  Can  I  have  a  recommendation  that  will  help  me  in 
getting  another  situation  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Most  decidedly  not,"  he  replied.  In  his  voice  lay  the 
just  indignation  of  the  entire  firm.  She  had  favored  an- 
other as  she  had  refused  to  favor  him,  and  mercy  was  not 
within  call  of  him. 

Nanno  looked  up  with  pleading  eyes. 

"  Oh,  surely  you  can't  deny  me  that  ?  "  she  begged. 

"  We  have  every  right.  I  may  say  that  such  a  case 
as  this  has  never  occurred  amongst  our  young  ladies  be- 
fore. Your  condition  is  a  disgrace  to  the  establishment 
and  to  yourself."  Mr.  Mossop  could  be  a  moralist  if  he 
chose.  Half  expressed  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  there  lay 
quite  a  few  stinging  phrases  of  ethical  judgment  which 
he  was  yearning  to  deliver  to  this  girl  who  had  so  wantonly 


TRAFFIC.  313 

given  herself  away;  but  they  would  not  collect  them- 
selves into  forms  of  speech. 

"  I  repeat/'  he  added  in  lieu  of  them — "  it  is  a  dis- 
grace." 

"  But  I  am  married,"  Xanno  replied  quietly.  "  I  didn't 
know  that  it  was  a  disgrace  for  a  married  woman  to 
work  for  her  living  as  long  as  she  is  able." 

Mr.  Mossop  saw  the  truth  in  her  eyes,  but  he  refused  to 
believe  it.  This  would  rob  him  of  prestige.  It  offended 
his  sense  of  mastery.  Besides,  where  was  her  husband? 

"  If  you  wish  to  profess  that,"  he  answered,  "  I  am 
forced  to  reply  that  we  do  not  employ  married  women 
on  our  staff.  You  will  receive  your  wages  from  the 
cashier  in  the  usual  way." 

"  But  the  letter  of  recommendation  ?  " 

He  looked  her  squarely  in  the  face,  as  though,  with 
the  astuteness  of  the  barrister,  he  were  putting  her  to 
a  test  that  would  expose  the  weakness  of  her  story. 

"  If  you  like  to  bring  your  husband  here  and  with  the 
certificate  of  your  marriage  I  will  endeavor,  for  the  sake 
of  the  interest  I  once  took  in  you,  to  see  how  far  I  can 
influence  the  firm  to  look  at  your  case  with  reasonable 
leniency.  Will  you  do  that?  Will  you  bring  your  hus- 
band here  ?  " 

"  I  can't." 

"  Ah !  "  He  smiled  with  the  wisdom  of  the  world  and 
the  weight  of  his  own  omniscience.  "Isn't  he  alive?" 
He  asked  it  so  gently,  so  considerately. 

"  Yes— he's  alive." 

"Oh — then  why  can't  you  bring  him?" 

"  We  don't  live  together." 

"  Ah."  The  smile  returned  with  reassurance.  "  I  see 
— you  don't  live  together.  Then — good-afternoon." 

He  left  her  there  alone. 


314  TRAFFIC. 

When  four  months  had  passed  her  child  was  born.  Mrs. 
Hudson  in  those  days  rose  to  a  pinnacle  of  admiration 
and  affection  in  Nanno's  heart.  She  nursed  her  through 
it  all  with  a  care  and  attention  that  no  mother  could  have 
excelled.  "  Why,  my  goodness/'  she  said,  expressing  her 
view  of  the  whole  matter,  "  so  long  as  they  leave  them 
words — '  for  better  or  for  worse  ' — in  the  prayer-books, 
this  state  o'  things'll  be  goin'  hon,  goin'  hon,  and  what's 
to  stop  'em?" 

When  she -learned  that  Nanno  had  but  very  little  money 
left  in  the  hoard  which  she  had  saved,  she  replied  that 
there  was  time  enough  to  talk  about  them  things  when 
she  couldn't  pay  at  all. 

"  Why  Lord  a'  mercy,"  she  added,  going  to  the  door, 
"  a  fine  young  girl  like  you  will  get  somefin'  to  do  the 
moment  you  put  your  foot  outside  the  door  again.  And 
that'll  be  in  just  ten  days  from  now.  I'll  pack  yer  off 
then;  like  as  if  yer  was  goin'  to  school." 

Nanno  smiled.  She  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  sound  broke 
in  her  throat,  and  the  moment  the  door  had  closed,  her 
head  was  buried  in  the  pillows  and  the  tears  rushed  from 
her  eyes  as  a  stream  that  is  in  flood.  She  made  no  sound. 
She  was  too  weak.  But  beside  her,  in  all  the  lustiness  of 
new  life,  Jamesy's  child  asserted  its  existence. 

In  ten  days,  as  Mrs.  Hudson  had  declared,  Nanno  was 
about  once  more,  and  the  first  morning  that  she  was  strong 
enough,  she  set  out  to  answer  the  advertisements  that 
she  had  been  watching  in  the  papers.  They  were  all  for 
situations  such  as  that  which  she  had  filled  at  Maynard's, 
but  without  exception  needed  proofs  of  her  experience. 
She  could  give  none. 

The  days  passed  by,  and  one  evening  after  another  she 
returned,  her  errands  fruitless.  Her  circumstances  when 
she  first  came  from  Ireland  were  far  superior  to  those 


TRAFFIC.  315 

which  she  cited  now.  She  had  had  experience;  she  was 
more  fitted  for  her  work,  but  some  shadow  seemed  to  have 
fallen  across  her  face.  It  fell  across  the  story  that  she 
told.  They  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  When  Mr.  Mos- 
sop  had  first  seen  her,  she  had  been  so  obviously  the  fresh, 
country  girl,  ready  to  learn,  ready  to  work.  That  sugges- 
tion had  left  her  now.  There  was  no  doubt  that  she  had 
been  in  London  for  some  time.  Then  what  had  she  been 
doing?  She  could  not  answer.  If  she  had  not  been  at 
work,  were  there  any  persons  who  could  recommend  her 
for  honesty,  sobriety — any  of  the  moral  qualifications  that 
all  these  establishments  are  so  eager  to  get  and  so  lax  to 
superintend?  But  there  were  none.  There  was  one  per- 
haps— Jerningham — but  she  would  not  go  to  him.  And 
so  the  days  turned  into  weeks.  She  was  already  heavily 
in  Mrs.  Hudson's  debt,  but  no  work  was  to  be  found. 

One  evening  she  was  having  a  meal,  when  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room  opened  and  Mr.  Hudson,  whom  she  had 
often  seen,  but  never  spoken  to  before,  entered  the  room. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  began  awkwardly. 

"  Why — of  course.     Please  come  in." 

He  shut  the  door  ominously  behind  him. 

"It's  like  this,"  he  said,  striding  like  a  cart-horse  at 
once  to  his  point :  "  my  missis  is  lettin'  you  lodge  'ere  for 
nothin'." 

"  Oh,  as  soon  as  I  get  work,  Mr.  Hudson " 

"  Yes — as  soon  as  you  do.  So  far  you  'aven't  got  it, 
so  what  I'm  sayin'  ain't  so  far  wrong.  She's  lettin'  you 
lodge  'ere  for  nothin',  and  we  can't  afford  it — blowed  if 
we  can.  If  she  knew  I  was  talkin'  to  you  about  it,  she'd 
go  'arf  ways  to  breakin'  me  'ead — so  you  needn't  tell  her, 
d'yer  see " 

Nanno  said  she  understood. 


316  TRAFFIC. 

"Well,  now,  what  are  yer.goin'  to  do?  I  tells  you  we 
can't  afford  it,  and  what  do  you  reply  ?  " 

"  It  shan't  continue.  I  shall  say  nothing  to  Mrs.  Hud- 
son; you  needn't  be  afraid  of  that — but  it  shan't  con- 
tinue." 

He  went  to  the  door  again. 

"  Much  obliged,"  he  said  lethargically.  Then  ho  was 
gone.  A  few  sentences,  a  few  moments,  and  the  real 
tragedy  of  her  position  had  been  shown  to  her,  as  when 
a  search-light,  scouring  like  a  greyhound  through  the 
dark,  falls  with  its  dazzling  illumination  upon  its  prey. 
He  had  come  and  gone,  before  she  was  almost  aware 
of  his  entrance ;  yet  it  had  been  long  enough  to  change  the 
entire  outlook  in  her  mind. 

A  pound  or  so  was  all  that  she  possessed  in  the  world 
and,  so  far  as  she  could  see,  only  one  course  lay  open  to  her 
— to  appeal  to  Jerningham.  She  took  his  crumpled  letter 
out  of  her  pocket  and  read  it  through  again.  She  had 
lost  count  by  this  of  the  number  of  times  that  she  had 
perused  it. 

"  I  don't  know  the  laws  of  your  Church — but  I  suppose 
that  that  would  be  a  greater  sin.  I  could  not  make  you 
sin,  Nanno.  You  are  only  meant  for  the  praise  and  pleas- 
ure of  the  God  who  made  you.  And  so  I  see  I  am  wrong 
even  in  saying  that  I  would  take  you  in  should  you  come 
and  ask  me.  I  would  not  take  you  in.  I  would  not." 

It  was  quite  obvious  that  he  did  not  know  the  laws 
of  her  Church.  It  would  be  a  sin,  no  doubt,  if  she 
sought  the  cover  and  release  of  his  protection ;  but  absolu- 
tion would  not  be  denied  her.  There  were  many  women 
who  sinned  in  such  a  way  to  whom  absolution  was  granted. 
The  punishment  would  not  be  so  drastic  as  the  inevitable 
excommunication  that  would  follow  her  marriage,  were 
she  to  accept  the  law  of  England.  He  did  not  know  the 


TRAFFIC.  317 

laws  of  her  Church ;  but  could  she  enlighten  him  ?  Could 
she  go  down  to  the  Temple  that  evening  and  say,  "  I'm 
in  great  trouble ;  I  can't  support  myself  or  my  child.  If  I 
came  to  live  with  you,  it  would  not  be  so  great  sin  as  if  I 
wilfully  disobeyed  the  teachings  of  the  Church  and  mar- 
ried you — will  you  take  me  ?  " 

How  could  she  say  that?  It  would  be  selling  herself 
— worse  than  selling  herself.  She  would  be  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  love  he  felt  for  her,  and  receiving  more,  in- 
finitely more,  than  was  her  due.  It  would  be  a  better 
thing  to  go  into  the  streets  and  barter  with  those  who 
needed  no  more  than  she  could  give,  rather  than  play  on 
his  feelings  as  on  a  man  who  was  drunk  and  steal  from 
him  more  than  her  rightful  wage. 

She  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  the  stress  of  cir- 
cumstance into  which  she  had  been  brought.  Two  years 
ago,  six  months  ago,  this  idea  would  never  have  entered 
her  head ;  now  she  contemplated  it  as  a  possible  alternative 
to  something  that  appeared  to  be  her  last  hope.  The  hand 
of  the  Law  was  raised  warningly  before  her.  When  it 
was  lowered,  it  seemed  that  she  could  only  go  on  towards 
her  own  destruction.  Why  obey  the  Law  ?  Those  brought 
up  beneath  its  hand  find  it  well-nigh  impossible  to  creep 
out  of  the  shadow. 

But  what  was  there  to  do?  She  leaned  on  the  table, 
her  hands  holding  her  head,  that  throbbed  with  the  pulse 
of  despair.  The  Fate  that  had  been  hanging  in  her  steps 
across  the  checkered-board  of  Life  had  driven  her  into  the 
fatal  square.  She  could  move  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left.  There  remained  only  one  black  square  and  that, 
behind  her.  The  law  of  Traffic  compelled  her  to  move 
on.  Fate,  Circumstance — there  are  so  many  names,  yet 
none  actually  define  the  power  that  drives — offered  only 
this  wav  to  move.  Was  it  to  be  checkmate  or  one  more 


318  TRAFFIC. 

effort  in  a  lower,  meaner  groove,  from  which  the  hope  of 
ultimate  escape  was  too  remote  to  see? 

Mrs.  Hudson  opened  the  door  and  looked  in. 

'  'Ere's  Miss  Shand  to  see  yer,  dear.  Miss  Shand,  what 
used  to  come  before." 

Nanno  lifted  her  head  with  sudden  hope.  Was  this  a 
direction,  an  alternative  that  she  had  overlooked  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

HAD  she  known  the  subtle  menace  that  was  hidden  be- 
hind the  advent  of  Miss  Shand — the  poisoned  dagger  be- 
hind the  velvet  cloak — Nanno  would  have  closed  her  door 
and  cried  against  her  entry.  But  the  deeper  design  lay 
concealed  beneath  the  superficial  fact  that  this  was  a 
friend  in  a  moment  of  distress.  She  welcomed  her  as  a 
man  welcomes  the  first  blades  of  harvest  that  lift  above  the 
ground.  In  that  instant  it  seemed  that  she  had  found 
her  salvation. 

So  it  is  and  in  such  a  guise  that  the  scheme  of  Life 
brings  personalities  together  for  its  own  ends,  with  its 
own  intentions.  It  will  scour  the  earth  to  fill  one  de- 
parting boat,  weaving  a  network  of  circumstances,  lasting 
sometimes  over  years,  in  order  to  collect  these  units  on  a 
certain  night  of  storm  when  the  ship  shall  be  wrecked 
and  they  whose  hour  has  come  be  sent  before  their  God 
as  the  law  of  Fate  has  decided.  It  will  bring  together 
a  man  and  a  woman  from  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  world, 
constructing  an  intricate  scaffolding  of  events  which,  with 
a  certainty  that  counts  to  a  grain  the  sand  that  is  washed 
of  the  sea,  will  make  their  contact  inevitable.  It  will 
make  lovers  of  them,  friends  of  them,  husband  and  wife 
of  them,  in  order  to  create  tribulation  or  blessing  for 
them  both.  Thus  the  gauntlet  of  existence  is  run  in  order 
that  they  who  are  entered  for  the  race  may  pass  the  test 
of  tribulation  or  the  yet  harder  test  of  blessings  that  can- 

319 


320  TRAFFIC. 

not  be  numbered,  before  it  may  be  adjudged  that  they  have 
earned  their  reward. 

That  evening,  as  Miss  Shand  was  getting  into  the  'bus 
that  would  bring  her  to  the  flat  where  she  had  moved, 
she  saw  a  girl  crossing  the  road  who  reminded  her  of 
N"anno.  That  girl  had  been  sent  on  a  message  from  the 
City,  and  it  Avas  the  first  time  for  three  years  that  she 
had  come  so  far  West.  A  moment  later,  a  moment  sooner, 
Miss  Shand  would  not  have  seen  her,  and  the  thought 
of  going  out  to  the  Fulham  Eoad  and  renewing  her 
friendship  with  Nanno  would  not  have  entered  her  head. 
But  the  incident  was  timed  with  an  accuracy  which  noth- 
ing human  can  conceive.  Miss  Shand  jumped  down  from 
her  'bus  before  it  started ;  crossing  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  she  took  another  that  was  going  in  the  direction 
that  she  required  and,  within  twenty  minutes,  she  was  kiss- 
ing Nanno's  cheek  with  friendly  assurances  that  their 
quarrel  was  over. 

So  these  two,  both  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  they 
were  puppets  in  a  powerful  hand,  met  again  to  play  their 
parts,  one  against  the  other,  as  unwittingly  as  they  had 
done  before. 

Nanno  seated  Miss  Shand  in  the  old  horsehair  arm- 
chair, and,  placing  herself  near  her,  they  talked  for  an 
hour  of  the  old  times,  of  the  changes  that  had  come  in 
the  restaurant  since  Nanno's  departure,  on  every  topic  that 
a  woman — no  matter  what  her  training  may  have  been — 
can  call  into  immediate  requisition  in  order  to  shield  the 
one  subject  that  is  nearest  her  thoughts. 

But  eventually  it  had  to  be  discussed.  Both  of  them 
were  fully  aware  of  that.  Whenever  an  opportunity  of- 
fered, Miss  Shand  drew  the  conversation  round  to  Nanno's 
dismissal  from  Maynard's  and,  for  a  time,  Nanno  deftly 
avoided  the  inevitable  result.  At  length  she  gave  way 


TRAFFIC.  321 

and,  with  lips  thai  sometimes  quivered,  with  voice  that 
sometimes  shook,  she  told  her  story  once  more,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  cold  and  empty  grate  as  though,  in  its 
very  cheerlessness,  she  found  assistance  in  her  confession. 

With  concentrated  intentness,  Miss  Shand  listened  to 
every  word ;  asking  such  questions  now  and  again  as  would 
satisfy  a  curiosity  regarding  intimate  details  which  she 
could  not  suppress. 

"  And  now,"  concluded  Nanno,  "  I  can  get  nothing  to 
do.  For  the  last  week  or  so  I've  been  answering  advertise- 
ments till  the  sight  of  a  paper  makes  me  feel  tired — worn 
out/' 

"  How  much  have  you  saved,  dear  ?  "  asked  Miss  Shand, 
coming  without  hesitation  to  the  vital  point. 

"  All  that  I've  saved  is  gone.  I've  only  got  a  pound  and 
a  few  shillings,  and  I  owe  Mrs.  Hudson  here  quite  a 
lot  of  money." 

"  But  how  about  Mr.  Jerningham  ?  He'd  help  you — 
don't  I  just  know  he  would." 

Up  to  this  moment  Jerningham's  name  had  not  been 
mentioned.  Xanno  had  steered  wide  of  it  as  of  a  whirl- 
pool, though  just  before  her  friend's  arrival  it  had  risen 
so  prominently  in  her  mind. 

"  How  about  Mr.  Jerningham  ?  "  Miss  Shand  repeated. 
She  knew  that  N"anno  had  intentionally  avoided  the  intro- 
duction of  his  name.  Xow  she  intended  to  bring  it  in 
herself.  It  is  a  practical  impossibility  to  shake  a  woman 
of  a  fixed  belief  which  instinct  has  driven  into  her  mind, 
and  with  Miss  Shand,  when  first  she  heard  the  reason 
of  Xanno's  dismissal  from  the  restaurant,  her  thoughts 
flew  to  Jerningham  as  the  cause.  Now  she  had  been  told 
a  different  story.  Out  of  nowhere  a  husband  had  been 
created  and  offered  for  her  acceptance  as  the  father  of 
Nanno's  child.  But  where  was  the  father  now?  He  had 
21 


322  TRAFFIC. 

vanished  again  into  the  nowhere  from  whence  he  came. 
When  first  she  had  known  Nanno,  she  had  found  her  living 
alone  in  these  very  rooms.  No  hint,  no  suggestion,  was 
ever  given  then  that  she  was  married.  Now,  after  some 
months,  she  had  returned  to  find  Nanno  the  mother  of  a 
child,  but  still  living  alone  as  she  was  before.  With 
preconceived  ideas  as  to  the  child's  parentage,  founded  on 
no  idle  conjectures,  she  was  asked  then  to  believe  in  a 
husband  who,  in  that  short  time,  had  come  from  and  gone 
into  the  unknown. 

Nanno  was  reticent;  by  nature,  Miss  Shand  knew  that 
she  was  a  great  deal  more  virtuous  than  many  another 
girl  of  her  acquaintance,  who  had  not  come  to  such  a 
pass  as  this.  It  was  quite  reasonable  to  suppose  that  she 
did  not  like  to  tell  the  actual  truth.  But  more  forcible 
a  reason  than  this,  was  the  first  conviction  that  had  entered 
like  a  sun-ray  into  the  unillumined  mind  of  Miss  Shand, 
that  Jerningham  was  the  father  of  Nanno's  child.  She 
would  not  dare  openly  to  say  so.  A  generous  consideration 
of  Nanno's  feelings  was  mostly  the  cause  of  this.  But 
in  her  heart,  she  nursed  the  belief — judged  by  it — worked 
on  it.  Why  wasn't  Jerningham  helping  her?  For  the 
third  time  she  asked  the  question: 

"How  about  Mr.  Jerningham?" 

"Why  do  you  keep  on  asking  that?"  said  Nanno, 
brought  at  last  to  the  actual  discussion  of  his  existence. 
"Mr.  Jerningham  has  nothing  to  do  with  me.  We  used 
to  be  friends,  perhaps,  but  because  she's  his  friend,  a  wo- 
man can't  go  and  ask  a  man  to  help  her  with  money." 

Miss  Shand  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Why  not  ?    He'd  be  only  too  glad." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  He  wouldn't  like  it.  I'm  nothing 
to  him.  I'd  rather  we  didn't  speak  about  him.  What 
you  suggest  is  right  out  of  the  question."  She  leaned 


TRAFFIC.  323 

forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  Miss  Shand's.  "  Don't 
speak  about  him  any  more,"  she  pleaded. 

It  had  been  said  that  Miss  Shand  was  by  no  means  the 
worst  of  her  type.  She  had  not  been  brought  up  to 
understand  the  full  meaning  of  the  word  morality,  but 
that  did  not  lessen  the  power  of  the  better  impulses  that 
were  often  ready  to  dominate  her  actions.  She  could 
not  withstand  this  appeal,  as  Xanno  made  it.  Still  be- 
lieving that  Jerningham  was  the  cause  af  all  the  mis- 
fortune that  had  beset  her  companion,  she  felt  the  utmost 
compassion  for  her  in  this  plight,  which,  in  her  own  mind, 
she  chose  to  call  desertion.  Gripping  with  convulsive  pres- 
sure the  hand  that  was  laid  on  hers,  she  put  one  arm  round 
Xanno's  neck. 

"  I'll  never  so  much  as  breathe  his  name  again !  "  she 
exclaimed ;  "  but  if  he  won't  help  you — I  will.  You  pack 
up  your  things  here.  Tell  Mrs.  Hudson  you'll  pay  her  as 
soon  as  you  can,  and  then  you'll  just  come  and  live  with 
me  till  you  can  get  some  work  to  do — eh,  dear  ?  " 

Xanno's  gratitude  filled  her  eyes. 

"  How  can  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  You  couldn't  afford  it  in 
your  rooms." 

"  Ah  ! — but  I've  a  flat  of  my  own  now." 

"You  have?" 

"  Yes — so  that  it'll  be  only  your  food  that'll  cost  any- 
thing, and  I  know  how  to  do  things  cheap.  I  should  just 
think  I  did." 

"  But  there's  the  baby." 

For  the  moment  both  of  them  had  forgotten  the  first 
cause  of  all  the  trouble. 

"  And  I've  never  seen  him — is  it  a  him  ?  " 

Xanno  nodded. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Sleeping  in  my  bedroom." 


324  TRAFFIC. 

In  an  instant  the  thought  of  its  existence  dominated 
Miss  Shand's  mind. 

"  May  I  have  a  look?  "  she  begged. 

iSTanno  opened  the  door  into  the  bedroom  and  they  both 
entered  noiselessly. 

"  Oh ! — you  still  keep  that  funny  picture  of  the  Sacred 
what-cher-may-call-it  over  your  bed,"  said  Miss  Shand  in 
a  whisper.  Then  she  turned  with  a  delighted  exclamation 
to  the  sleeping  son  of  Jamesy  Eyan.  "  Oh ! — he  is  a  gem. 
Isn't  he,  dear?" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Ox  the  following  day,  in  a  little  flat  at  the  top  of  a 
large  building  near  Shepherd's  Bush,  Nanno  had  taken  up 
her  abode  with  Miss  Shancl.  She  filled  the  place  of  the 
maid-of-all-work,  who  had  been  dismissed  in  order  that 
Xanno  might  in  some  way  justify  her  existence  there  and 
save  her  friend  the  greater  expense  of  her  board.  When- 
ever there  were  two  or  three  hours  of  the  day  which  she 
could  spare  from  her  household  duties,  she  locked  up  the 
flat  and  departed  in  search  of  employment.  But  the  re- 
sult was  always  the  same.  Sometimes  she  was  requested 
to  come  again,  and  the  diminishing  hill  of  hope  be- 
came a  mountain  that  was  crumbled  away  to  dust  when 
next  she  saw  her  prospective  employers.  No  mountains 
are  there  more  easy  to  be  moved  with  a  word  than  those 
of  hope,  which  range  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  our 
mental  homon. 

Xevertheless,  the  conditions  of  life  were  not  so  im- 
possible as  they  had  been  with  Mrs.  Hudson,  to  whom 
she  still  owed  eight  pounds  for  her  lodging.  She  was 
entirely  dependent  upon  Miss  Shand  certainly,  but  then 
she  worked  for  her  and  in  some  degree  lessened  the  ex- 
pense that  she  otherwise  caused.  This,  however,  did  not 
detract  from  the  sense  of  obligation  of  which,  whenever 
they  were  not  on  the  best  of  terms,  Miss  Shand  was  not 
above  reminding  her.  Accordingly  she  did  her  utmost  to 
make  herself  free  once  more.  She  longed  for  the  inde- 
pendence she  had  known  when  she  was  in  the  restaurant. 

325 


32G  TRAFFIC. 

But  three  weeks  passed  by  and  that  independence  was  still 
unfound.  She  did  her  utmost  during  this  time  to  mini- 
mize the  cost  of  her  living  and,  as  a  result,  the  baby  suf- 
fered in  its  strength.  She  suffered  too  Her  cheeks  that 
once  were  full  and  tinted  with  the  open  air,  as  when  Jer- 
ningham  had  first  seen  her,  found  hollows  and  grew  paler 
every  day.  Her  deep  eyes  burned  just  as  brightly,  but 
there  were  heavy  shadows  under  them.  Her  lips  were  just 
as  beautiful.  They  looked,  in  fact,  a  deeper  red  against 
the  ivory  pallor  of  her  face. 

She  seemed  more  fragile  than  ever.  The  expression  of 
Fatefulness  had  increased.  No  one,  looking  at  her  with 
sight  that  was  anything  at  all  more  than  superficial,  could 
fail  to  think  that  in  some  man's  life  she  would  be  the 
heaven  of  a  great  passion  or  the  hell  of  a  giant  despair. 
It  did  not  escape  the  notice  of  Miss  Shand.  Often,  when 
silently  looking  at  her  in  the  evening  when  she  returned, 
she  would  wonder  why  Nanno  had  so  spoiled  her  life. 
Whether  it  was,  as  she  still  believed,  the  fault  of  Jerning- 
ham,  or,  as  Nanno  would  wish  her  to  understand,  the  ex- 
istence of  this  unknown  husband,  still  her  life  was  spoiled, 
and  with  the  undeniable  beauty  of  her  face,  Miss  Shand 
was  fully  aware  that  the  conditions  under  which  she  lived 
might  have  been  very  different. 

She  never  expressed  this  thought.  A  woman  must  love 
another  more  deeply  than  Miss  Shand  loved  Nanno  to  tell 
her  that  she  is  beautiful.  And  Nanno  was  not  of  that 
type  of  woman  which  knows  its  beauty  for  itself.  Re- 
garding herself  in  the  glass  when  she  went  to  bed,  she 
would  realize  how  tired  she  looked.  Never,  even  with  Jer- 
ningham,  had  she  counted  upon  her  appearance.  She  had 
often  wondered  why  he  should  love  her  as  he  had  declared. 
He  had  never  told  her  that  she  was  beautiful.  Had  he 
done  so,  she  might  then  have  believed  it  for  his  eyes  alone. 


TRAFFIC.  327 

It  is  the  women  who  are  pretty,  who  know  of  their  own 
grace  and  think  themselves  beautiful.  The  beauty  of  a 
beautiful  woman  is  not  to  be  found  by  herself  when  she 
sees  her  reflection  in  a  mirror;  half  of  it  lies  in  the  minds 
of  those  who  find  her  fair. 

It  was  after  three  weeks  of  quiet  living,  chatting  with 
her  friend  after  supper,  while  she  made  minute  little  gar- 
ments for  her  child,  and  working  like  a  housemaid  during 
the  day,  that  Miss  Shand  returned  early  one  evening  with 
the  information  that  she  wanted  to  get  a  swell  meal  ready. 

"  I've  got  some  fellows — nice  chaps — coming  in  to- 
night, dear — that's  why/' 

They  busied  themselves  about  the  room  to  improve  the 
superficial  appearance  of  things,  which  means  so  much  to 
a  woman  and  so  little  to  a  man.  The  expectation  of  com- 
pany brought  a  glow  of  excitement  to  Nanno's  cheeks. 
She  had  never  met  any  of  Miss  Shand's  friends  and,  in 
the  generous  innocence  of  her  heart,  she  anticipated  a 
pleasurable  relief  from  the  monotony  of  listening  to  her 
companion's  amiable  conversation. 

"  Xow,  you  go  and  put  on  the  best  frock  you've  got, 
dear,"  Miss  Shand  advised,  when  they  had  spread  an  en- 
ticing meal  from  the  parcels  which  she  had  brought  back 
with  her.  "  I'm  going  to  put  on  a  low  body  what  one  of 
the  girls  in  Maynard's  got  for  me  cheap.  It's  a  bargain, 
really  it  is.  I've  seen  some  in  Eegent  Street  in  Peter 
Eobinson's — not  a  bit  better. 

Nanno  departed  to  her  room  with  a  lighter  step. 

"  I  do  hope  the  baby  won't  cry  out  in  your  room  to- 
night, dear,"  Miss  Shand  called  after  her.  "  It  'ud  be  so 
awkward  like  if  they  was  to  hear  it." 

Nanno  stopped.  She  felt  plainly  the  note  of  objection 
in  her  friend's  voice.  Those  first  ecstasies  of  Miss  Shand 
had  soon  died  away  when  she  had  come  to  live  with  the 


328  TRAFFIC. 

child.  Nanno  had  seen  that  before.  Now  it  was  still  more 
obvious  and  once  again,  for  a  time  that  was  past  counting, 
she  whispered  a  hurried  appeal  to  the  Power  above  her  that 
she  might  soon  find  employment. 

"  I'll  see  that  it  goes  fast  asleep,"  she  called  back.  . 

Whatever  belief  there  may  be,  prayer  is  the  essence  of 
religion.  It  is  a  greater  and  deeper  and  truer  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  existence  and  mercy  of  God  than  any  purchased 
seat  in  the  parish  church.  Nanno's  unswerving  belief  in 
the  teachings  of  her  creed  was  no  less  wonderful  than  her 
deep-rooted  feeling  of  reverence  and  dependence  upon  the 
God  she  worshiped.  Scarcely  a  day  passed  when,  apart 
from  the  usual  prayers  of  night  and  morning,  she  did  not 
whisper  an  importunate  appeal  to  the  Throne  of  her 
Creator.  She  did  it  as  she  worked.  She  did  it  as  she 
passed  along  the  street.  There  was  no  one  sufficiently  ob- 
servant to  mark  the  surreptitiously  moving  finger  as  it 
made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  in  preliminary  to  the  prayer. 

That  evening,  no  sooner  had  she  closed  the  door  of  her 
room  than  she  went  to  the  bed  and  knelt  down,  praying  for 
patience,  praying  for  help — however  it  might  come. 

When  she  came  back  into  the  sitting-room,  Miss  Shand 
was  already  dressed.  The  bargain  that  she  wore,  suited  her 
certainly,  if  it  did  fulfil  to  the  letter  the  fact  that  it  was 
low.  She  looked  up  with  the  expectation  of  approval  in 
her  eyes;  but  when  she  saw  Nanno,  who  for  the  last  few 
weeks  had  worn  nothing  but  her  oldest  clothes  in  which  to 
do  the  work  of  the  house,  arrayed  in  a  dainty  though  un- 
pretentious muslin  frock  which  she  had  once  bought  for 
the  summer,  the  look  of  expectation  departed  from  her 
eyes. 

"  My  goodness ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  didn't  know  you 
had  that  thing ! "  She  half  closed  her  eyes  critically. 
"  Yes — I  think  it  does  suit  you,  dear,"  she  added.  To  an 


TRAFFIC.  329 

outsider  the  lie  would  have  been  obvious.  Miss  Shand 
knew  that  Nanno  looked  infinitely  preferable  to  herself. 
But  this  was  not  the  moment  for  praise. 

At  half-past  seven  the  fellows  arrived.  There  were  only 
two  of  them.  Miss  Shand  was  not  without  discretion  when 
considering  her  own  interests. 

To  introduce  them  as  the}r  were,  Stanley  Puckle  and 
"\Yilfrid  Aimes  were  both  in  business.  As  a  solicitor's  clerk 
in  Bedford  Kow,  the  former,  dressed  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Eastcheap  on  approved  patterns  from  West  End  tailors, 
was  the  discontented  recipient  of  one  hundred  and  seventy- 
five  pounds  a  year.  He  lived  in  lodgings  quite  close  to  the 
suburban  end  of  the  Two-penny  Tube,  and  when  he  went 
up  to  business  in  the  morning,  a  flower  of  the  previous 
night's  entertainment  usually  graced  his  button-hole. 
Wilfrid  Aimes,  on  the  other  hand,  was  of  a  diametrically 
opposite  mold.  When  Stanley  Puckle  talked  loudly  of 
musical-comedy  artistes  and  repeated  jokes  which  he  had 
heard  across  the  footlights  from  those  creatures  of  genius, 
his  friend  was  mutely  silent.  When,  on  the  other  hand, 
Wilfrid  Aimes  discussed  the  beauties  of  Shelley  and  the 
more  intelligible  portions  of  George  Meredith,  Stanley 
Puckle  held  his  tongue  and  waited  for  an  opening. 

Wilfrid  Aimes  was  a  designer  for  the  artistic  productions 
of  a  firm  of  electricians  in  the  West.  The  firm  of  electri- 
cians, though  full  of  hesitation  in  backing  their  opinion 
of  him  in  the  form  of  the  salary  they  gave  were,  neverthe- 
less, emphatically  aware  of  the  value  of  his  services.  He 
had  a  little  office  to  himself — called  the  Designing  Boom, 
with  two  capital  letters — and  from  there  he  despatched 
neat  little  paintings  on  colored  paper  of  electroliers  and 
wall-light  fittings,  which  never  looked  the  same  when  the 
actual  ornament  was  complete.  He  pleased  the  customers 
however,  frequently  inducing  them  to  buy  fittings  that 


330  TRAFFIC. 

they  did  not  require,  and  his  designs  in  antique  copper 
were  like  nothing  that  the  trade  could  produce.  In  the 
district  of  Portland  Street  Station,  he  had  secured  a  couple 
of  top  rooms  and  there,  with  no  possible  hope  of  success, 
he  painted  studies  in  his  non-working  hours — studies  in 
black  and  white,  studies  in  crayons,  studies  in  cheap  Ger- 
man oils — with  the  expectation  that  he  would  ultimately 
rise  to  fame.  By  this  means  he  supplemented  something 
to  his  income;  but  he  was  belonging  to  that  class  of 
Bohemian  artists  who  live  with  a  woman  and,  when  they 
have  painted  her  features  on  more  canvasses  than  they  can 
afford,  never  having  really  caught  her  likeness  or  made  a 
picture,  grow  tired  of  her  and  search  for  another.  The 
stability  that  succeeds  was  not  to  be  found  in  his  compo- 
sition. At  heart  he  was  infinitely  preferable  to  his  friend ; 
but  the  stamp  of  Bohemianism  debarred  him  from  much 
of  the  appreciation  which  fell  to  the  lot  of  Stanley  Puckle. 
Stanley  Puckle  was  a  man  of  the  world ;  he  knew  what  was 
going  on  at  the  theaters ;  Wilfrid  Aimes  had  "  artist " 
written  across  the  unstarched  limpness  of  his  collar,  and 
he  only  knew  nothing  about  Meredith,  Shelley,  and  the 
rest — and  of  what  use  was  that  ? 

Here  then  are  the  two  fellows,  the  nice  chaps,  the  two 
friends  of  Miss  Shand — introduced  as  they  were.  As  she 
introduced  them  to  Nanno,  they  became  "  My  friend,  Mr. 
Puckle."  Mr.  Puckle  raised  Nanno's  hand  to  the  level  of 
his  shoulder  and  wagged  it  familiarly.  "  How  d'you  do," 
he  said.  He  had  a  special  tone  of  voice  for  conversing  with 
women. 

"  Mr.  Aimes,"  went  on  Miss  Shand ;  "  he's  an  artist, 
dear,  paints  divinely." 

Mr.  Aimes  bowed. 

"  Nothing  in  this  world  is  divine,"  he  said  epigram- 
matically;  then  he  looked  up,  met  Nanno's  eyes  and  felt 


TRAFFIC.  331 

persuaded  to  add  an  amendment  to  his  statement,  He 
thought  he  had  never  seen  such  eyes,  such  hair,  or  such  lips 
before.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  was  mixing  burnt 
umber  upon  the  palette  of  his  mind  and  painting  her  hair 
on  the  canvas  of  his  imagination.  Many  a  woman's  face 
had  been  portrayed  there  before.  He  merely  ruboed  the 
pictures  out  and  painted  over  them. 

Before  the  meal  was  commenced,  it  became  evident  to 
Nanno  that  Mr.  Puckle,  with  his  well-oiled  hair,  his  latest 
thing  in  ties  and  the  suggestion  of  lavender-water  that 
clung  about  him,  was  Miss  Shand's  more  especial  friend. 
They  drifted  away  into  a  corner  of  the  room  together  and 
she  was  left  to  converse  with  Mr.  Aimes.  Had  she  particu- 
larly felt  any  preference,  this  would  have  been  her  choice. 
At  least  he  was  no  fop.  His  intelligence  was  of  a  higher 
order  than  that  of  Stanley  Puckle's.  Of  course  he  talked 
about  his  art;  but  then,  on  first  acquaintance,  she  found 
the  topic  interesting.  And  all  the  time  his  eyes  wandered 
from  her  lips  to  her  eyes,  her  eyes  to  her  hair,  then  back 
again  to  commence  their  journey  of  obvious  admiration 
once  more.  Nanno  was  not  exactly  sorry  when  Miss  Shand 
asked  her  to  see  if  the  meal  was  ready. 

When  everything  was  prepared,  they  sat  down  to  the 
table  and  the  conversation  became  general.  Nanno  joined 
in  the  laughter  that  ensued.  For  the  first  time  for  some 
months  she  felt  in  excellent  spirits. 

"  Delicious  trifle  this/'  said  Mr.  Puckle,  looking  up  from 
a  spoonful  of  the  sweet  that  he  was  just  raising  to  his 
mouth.  Six-pennyworth  of  sherry  had  gone  to  the  making 
of  that  dish.  Miss  Shand  felt  flattered  at  the  remark. 

"  I  always  like  it  flavored  with  sherry,"  she  said.  "  Will 
you  have  another  help  ?  " 

Mr.  Puckle  with  alacrity  said  he  would. 

"I  remember  when  I  was  staying  down  at  Hastings," 


332  TRAFFIC. 

lie  remarked,  bearing  away  a  well-filled  plate,  "  they  had 
excellent  trifle  at  the  hotel  where  I  was  staying.  I  asked 
the  head  waiter  what  wine  they  used." 

"  Sherry,  of  course,"  interposed  Miss  Shand. 

"  Yes — sherry.  Oh !  they  do  you  very  well  at  that  place. 
Quite  reasonable  too.  I  only  had  to  pay  four  guineas  a 
week  while  I  was  there.  Some  of  the  actors  and  actresses 
in  one  of  the  musical  comedies  were  staying  there  as  well. 
That  proves,  of  course,  that  the  place  was  up  to  the  mark. 
You  won't  catch  them  going  to  the  inferior  hotels.  Very 
decent  lot  they  were  too.  "What  musical  comedy?  Oh — 
the  '  Orchid.'  Jolly  good — did  you  see  it  ?  " 

Miss  Shand  shook  her  head. 

"Did  you,  Miss  Troy?" 

Nanno  replied  in  the  negative. 

"  Oh — clever  thing !  "  he  assured  them.  "  Very  smart, 
you  know.  There  was  one  joke,  this  man  wanted  to  get 
a  certain  orchid  you  know  " — he  leaned  over  the  table  and 
continued  the  relation  of  it  to  Miss  Shand. 

"  Did  you  ever  sit  for  your  portrait,  Miss  Troy  ?  "  Aimes 
asked,  turning  to  Nanno. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  laughed  brightly. 

"  For  my  portrait  ?  Xo — never.  Don't  you  have  to  pay 
for  that?" 

"  Well — it  all  depends."  He  hesitated.  He  was  think- 
ing of  what  he  would  pay  to  get  her  to  sit  to  him. 

"  I  wouldn't  charge  to  paint  yours." 

"Oh,  but  why  should  you?" 

"  Because  I  should  like  to.  You've  got  the  type  of  face 
that  is  full  of  inspiration  to  a  man  of  my  temperament. 
When  I  feel  a  thing  I  must  paint  it.  I  don't  feel  I'm  ex- 
isting until  I  get  a  brush  in  my  hand.  It's  just  tempera- 
ment of  course;  I'm  cursed  with  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment." 


TRAFFIC.  333 

"But  why  should  you  call  it  a  cur?e?  Isn't  it  nice  to 
feel  you  must  do  a  thing  and  then  be  able  to  do  it." 

"There  is  that  way  of  looking  at  it,"  Aimes  admitted. 
"But  I'm  afraid  I'm  no  good,  Miss  Troy.  I  talk  about 
the  artistic  temperament,  and  when  I  say  I'm  cursed  with 
it,  I  mean  that  I  don't  think  I'm  any  good." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  paint  me  then?" 

"  Because  I  believe  I  could  make  a  picture.  Might  get 
into  the  Royal  Academy,  you  know.  I  have  seen  some  rot- 
ters in  there  from  time  to  time.  I  believe  I  could  make  a 
picture." 

The  poor  man  had  believed  this  with  every  other  woman 
he  had  been  attracted  to. 

"  Would  you  ever  come  and  sit  for  me  ? "  he  begged . 
"  I'd  pay  you  as  they  do  a  model,  you  know ;  because  why 
should  I  take  up  your  time  for  nothing  ?  " 

He  would  pay  her.  She  would  earn  some  money;  well 
earned  if  it  helped  him  to  paint  a  picture  that  might  get 
into  the  Eoyal  Academy.  But  it  would  be  money  with 
which  she  could  pay  Mrs.  Hudson;  with  which  she  could, 
in  some  part,  remove  her  obligations  from  Miss  Shand. 
She  was  hungering  for  the  independence  wrought  of  gold. 

"  Say  you'll  come,"  he  repeated  eagerly,  seeing  the  half 
consent  already  in  her  face. 

"  Yes — I'll  come,"  she  said — "  if  you  really  do  think  you 
want  me  as  a  model — I'll  come;  but  I  don't  want  you  to 
do  it  out  of  kindness." 

Why  did  she  use  that  word  "  kindness  "  ?  Was  it  not 
more  her  kindness  to  him ;  even  if  he  did  pay  her  ? 

"  Are  you  sure  you  do  really  want  to  paint  my  picture  ?  " 
she  persisted. 

"  Well — I  have  only  to  look  at  you,"  he  said — and  he  did 
look  at  her.  She  might  have  known  then  that  it  was  not 
her  picture  that  he  wanted ;  yet  how  could  she  know,  when 


334  TRAFFIC. 

his  enthusiasm  even  deceived  himself?  He  had  wanted  to 
paint  so  many  women,  and  it  had  usually  ended  in  the 
same  way.  He  took  them  from  the  class  where  such  an 
ending  would  be  possible.  Yet  he  never  succeeded  in  see- 
ing through  himself.  The  inclination  to  make  a  picture 
always  deceived  him.  Perhaps  it  was  true;  he  was  cursed 
with  the  artistic  temperament.  But  any  temperament  can 
be  a  curse,  just  as  is  life  itself.  The  whole  matter  depends 
upon  how  one  uses  it;  whether  it  sways  the  man  or  the 
man  becomes  its  master.  It  ruled  Wilfrid  Aimes  as  a  wife 
rules  a  husband;  permitting  him  to  think  that  he  was  its 
tyrant,  yet  driving  him  precisely  where  it  willed. 

"  When  shall  I  come,  then  ?  "  Nanno  asked. 

"  It'll  have  to  be  in  the  evenings,"  he  told  her.  "  When 
I've  finished  business." 

They  made  the  arrangement  then  for  the  first  sitting, 
and  when  after  a  while  they  came  to  a  pause  of  silence,  Mr. 
Puckle's  voice  attracted  their  attention.  He  was  confiding 
to  Miss  Shand  the  difficulties  he  was  experiencing  in  re- 
gaining some  money  that  he  had  lent  to  a  friend. 

"  Of  course,  I  spurned  to  take  an  IOTJ  from  a  friend," 
he  explained.  "  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing.  But  I  don't 
want  to  be  done." 

"  Didn't  he  give  you  a  receipt  or  anything  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No — that's  the  worst  of  it.  I  ought  to  have  paid  him 
with  a  check,  but  when  you're  not  very  well  known — 
you  know  what  I  mean — people  ask  questions  about  your 
checks,  and  I  detest  that.  I've  treated  him  as  decently  as 
I  possibly  can.  I've  written  and  written,  but  I  can't  afford 
to  keep  him  in  luxury.  When  I  look  over  my  bank-book 
and  see  the  amounts  I've  lent  him,  it  makes  me  absolutely 
furious.  You  remember  Turner,  don't  you,  Aimes  ?  " 

Mr.  Aimes  admitted  that  he  did. 

"  Well,  he's  never  paid  me  back  that  money  I  lent  him. 


TRAFFIC.  335 

I  shall  cut  him  now  if  I  see  him  in  the  street.  I  would 
too  if  I  were  you.  Oh,  of  course,  the  man's  not  a  gentle- 
man." 

"  Can't  be,"  Miss  Shand  agreed. 

Later  on  in  the  evening  whisky  and  a  syphon  of  soda 
were  produced.  jSTanno  noticed  at  a  still  later  period  that 
Mr.  Puckle's  arm,  which  had  been  lying  on  the  back  of 
Miss  Shand's  chair,  was  now  round  her  waist.  The  laugh- 
ter that  burst  forth  at  various  intervals  sounded  strange 
and  hysterical.  At  last  Nanno  rose  and  said  that  she 
would  retire. 

"  Oh,  don't  go  to  bed  yet !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Shand. 

"No,  please  don't,"  echoed  Mr.  Puckle. 

Mr.  Aimes  looked  at  her  mutely. 

"  I'm  very  tired,"  she  said,  apologetically.  "  Of  course, 
I'll  stay  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Well,  we  don't  want  to  force  you,  dear — don't  think 
that.  Do  we  ?  "  Miss  Shand  appealed  to  the  others. 

Mr.  Puckle  emphatically  said  "  No !  "  Mr.  Aimes  shook 
his  head  wistfully. 

Then  Nanno  bid  them  good-night,  and  when  she  had 
gone,  leaving  Mr.  Aimes  inconsolably  alone,  Miss  Shand 
settled  down  more  comfortably  into  Mr.  Puckle's  embrace. 

"  She's  a  strange  mixture,"  she  remarked. 

Mr.  Aimes  looked  round  with  interest. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  look  here.  You  must  promise  both  of  you  to  say 
nothing.  You're  both  friends  of  mine,  otherwise  of  course 
I  wouldn't  breathe  a  word.  It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  I 
like  to  go  telling  people  about  others'  private  affairs.  Have 
you  ever  heard  me?"  She  appealed  more  particularly  to 
Stanley  Puckle,  and  that  gentleman  more  particularly  en- 
deavored to  reply  by  an  attempt  to  kiss  her. 

"  You   mustn't   do   that ! "    she   exclaimed   petulantly. 


336  TRAFFIC. 

"  Well,  that  girl  used  to  be  at  Maynard's  restaurant  with 
me,  where  I  am  now." 

"  Is  she  a  musician  then  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Puckle. 

"  No — she  waited.  Well,  there  was  a  man  that  used  to 
come  up  to  see  her.  Oh,  he  was  really  a  gentleman.  One 
evening  I  met  him  up  in  her  rooms,  and  when  I  went  home 
he  came  back  with  me.  That  was  when  I  was  living  in 
Gray's  Inn  Boad." 

"  He  came  back  with  you,  eh  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Puckle. 

"  Oh,  only  to  the  door.  I  think  he'd  have  liked — how- 
ever, that's  nothing  to  do  with  you — is  it  ?  "  She  looked 
up  coquettishly  into  her  admirer's  face.  "Well,  he  told 
me  then  that  he  was  gone  on  her — Xanno,  I  mean — Miss 
Troy — and  some  time  after  then  she  was  dismissed  from 
Maynard's." 

"  Why  ?  "  Mr.  Aimes  asked  abruptly. 

Miss  Shand  assumed  the  most  decorous  of  maiden  mod- 
esty. "  Well,  if  you  must  know,"  she  said,  endeavoring  to 
find  blushes  and  striving  to  hide  them,  "she  was  in  the 
family  way." 

Wilfrid  Aimes  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Mr.  Puckle,  settling  himself  closer  to 
Miss  Shand. 

"  Well,  I  guessed  of  course ;  but  about  four  weeks  ago — 
this  was  some  months  after  she  had  been  dismissed — I 
went  down  to  her  old  rooms  and  found  her  there  with  her 
baby.  She  hadn't  got  anything  fresh  to  do.  She  hadn't 
had  any  work  in  fact  for  some  months.  She  hadn't  a 
penny — she  owed  eight  pounds  to  her  landlady.  She  was 
practically  starving  herself — the  child'll  never  live  long 
after  those  first  few  months  of  its  life — and  so  I  took  her 
in  here,  and  she's  been  here  ever  since." 

"  By  Jove,  that  was  awfully  decent  of  you,  you  know ! " 
Mr.  Puckle  exclaimed. 


TRAFFIC.  337 

"  Very  kind/'  echoed  Mr.  Aimes. 

"  Had  the  man  left  her  then  ?  "  Mr.  Puckle  asked,  with 
a  twinge  of  his  own  conscience. 

"  That's  what  it  was,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Miss  Shand 
volubly.  She  told  me  a  long  rigmarole  about  a  husband 
that  she  married  in  Ireland — whom  she  had  brought  over 
to  England  et  cetera — but  I  never  saw  him.  When  I  came 
to  see  her,  he'd  gone  back  to  Ireland  again." 

"  Ah,  well — of  course  one  has  to  say  these  things,"  said 
the  sententious  Puckle. 

"  I  gathered  that  she  was  Irish,"  remarked  his  friend. 
"  But  she's  a  beautiful  girl." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so,  really?"  said  Miss  Shand.  "I 
suppose  she  is  pretty ;  but  beautiful ?  " 

"  Beautiful — I  think,"  persisted  the  artistic  Aimes,  in 
whose  mind  a  herd  of  possibilities  were  upon  the  point  of 
stampede.  "  You  say  she's  awfully  hard  up  ?  "  he  added. 

"Penniless,"  said  Miss  Shand. 

"  Um !    That's  why  she  said  it  was  kind  of  me." 

"  Why — what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  the  others  asked  in 
a  breath. 

"  She's  coming  in  the  evening  to  sit  for  me — and  I'm 
going  to  pay  her." 

"Oh,  Wilfrid!"  Puckle  exclaimed,  with  an  uplifted 
finger  of  reproof.  "  We  all  know  what  that  means." 

'•  Xot  at  all — not  at  all,"  Aimes  replied  blandly.  "  You 
don't  know  what  the  craving  to  do  artistic  work  is." 

Stanley  Puckle,  fortunately  for  him,  did  not.  He  ad- 
mitted as  much  by  taking  the  remark  as  a  rebuff.  He  said 
nothing. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  he  began  to  feel  that  his  pres- 
ence was  obviously  unnecessary.  Mr.  Aimes  rose  to  take  his 
leave.  He  thanked  Miss  Shand  for  a  very  pleasant  evening, 
22 


338  TRAFFIC. 

begged  her  to  put  nothing  in  the  way  of  Nanno's  coming 
to  see  him,  and  nodded  to  his  friend. 

When  he  had  gone  Miss  Shand  settled  herself  on  to  Mr. 
Puckle's  knee. 

"  What  did  you  mean  by  saying  to  him — '  we  all  know 
what  that  means  '  ?  " 

Puckle  laughed.  "  Oh,  we  all  know  Wilfrid.  He  al- 
ways ends  up  by  living  with  the  women  he  paints.  They 
sort  of  grow  into  the  idea  of  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  he  would  keep  her  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Well — she'll  never  get  any  work  to  do,  and  she's  got 
to  keep  the  child." 

"  But  I  thought  she  was  living  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes — but  I  can't  go  on  keeping  her  forever — can  I  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not — of  course  not.  I  suppose  we  shall 
meet  her  next  up  in  old  Wilfrid's  studio,  sitting  on  the 
model's  throne  with  that  old  Chinese  dressing-gown  round 
her,  that  every  single  one  of  'em  has  worn.  It  'ud  fit  any- 
body." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THERE  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  the  starving  man  who 
steals  a  loaf  to  fill  an  empty  stomach  is  a  thief.  There  was 
also  no  doubt  when,  some  weeks  after  the  little  party  in 
Miss  Shand's  flat,  Nanno  might  have  been  found  sitting 
on  the  throne  in  Wilfrid  Aimes'  studio  with  the  old 
Chinese  dressing-gown  around  her,  that  she  had  become  a 
woman  of  little  count.  Now,  the  law  of  Moses  draws  no 
distinction  between  the  seventh  commandment  and  the 
eighth;  yet  that  man  who,  to  assuage  an  hunger  that  is 
almost  death,  steals  a  loaf  is  judged  to  all  intent  to  be 
justified.  What  then  can  be  said  of  Nanno — heroine  for 
so  long  through  all  these  pages — now,  a  creature,  passing 
whom,  one  should  pull  aside  the  hem  or  cross  to  the  other 
path? 

Nothing  can  be  said  that  would  be  just,  for  what  mind 
is  there  capable  of  administering  justice  in  such  a  case? 
The  priest  of  God  points  to  his  tablets  of  stone  with  the 
remark :  "  Here  are  my  laws  written."  The  good  woman 
thinks  of  her  virtue,  the  virtue  which  quite  possibly  she 
has  rigidly  maintained  since  last  she  sinned,  and  is 
ashamed.  Justice  only  is  possible  from  the  man  who  was 
tempted  in  the  wilderness.  He,  no  doubt,  who  could  see 
the  virtue  in  the  box  of  spikenard,  would  find  virtue  also 
in  the  prayers  of  Nanno  that  left  her  lips  every  night. 

A  quarrel  with  Miss  Shand:  an  open  door  on  the  very 
evening  when  she  was  going  to  Aimes'  studio  for  the  fifth 
sitting — that  was  the  climax.  Events  over  the  last  few 

339 


340  TRAFFIC. 

weeks  had  been  steadily  leading  up  to  it.  Mrs.  Hudson 
had  written  for  some  money.  It  was  a  generous  letter,  but 
it  conveyed  an  absolute  necessity.  Aimes,  hearing  of  it 
through  Miss  Shand,  had  scraped  the  money  together  from 
the  lumber  of  his  studio  and  paid  it  without  Xanno's 
knowledge.  Mrs.  Hudson's  letter  of  thanks  which  followed 
had  shown  her  to  whom  she  owed  the  obligation.  After 
the  third  sitting  she  had  discovered  that  Aimes  was  pay- 
ing her  extravagantly  for  her  services.  She  told  him  of  it, 
but  he  begged  her  to  keep  the  money.  Dire  necessity  com- 
pelled her  to  obey.  Then  he  professed  to  take  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  baby.  He  bought  things  for  it.  He  asked  her 
to  bring  it  with  her  to  the  studio. 

"  How  the  deuce  you  can  bear  to  hear  that  whining  brat 
up  here,"  Mr.  Puckle  said  one  day  to  him,  "  is  more  than  I 
can  understand." 

"  It's  quiet  enough,"  Aimes  replied.  "  I  don't  mind  it — 
she  comes,  you  see." 

The  curse  of  his  artistic  temperament  again  deceived 
him.  He  thought  that  he  could  put  up  with  it  forever. 
He  called  it,  for  amusement,  his  adopted  child.  He 
thought  that  he  liked  to  see  it  crawling  about  the  studio 
floor.  He  pitied  it  for  its  white,  pinched  face.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  he  was  putting  up  with  it  in  order  to 
win  Nanno.  In  the  light  of  a  seducer,  he  would  not  have 
recognized  himself. 

By  the  time  that  Xanno  felt  thoroughly  indebted  to  him 
there  came  the  break — the  inevitable  break — in  her  friend- 
ship with  Miss  Shand. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  go  on  paying  for  you,"  was  Miss 
Shand's  last  remark.  "  That  baby  of  yours  is  always  keep- 
ing me  awake  at  night.  I  wish  to  God  you'd  take  it  out 
of  the  house." 


TRAFFIC.  341 

Nanno  wrapped  it  up  and  took  it  with  her  to  the  sitting 
in  Aimes'  studio. 

He  saw  no  difference  in  her  while  she  sat  for  her  por- 
trait. The  brushes  that  he  held  in  his  hand  smeared  away 
just  as  hopefully  as  ever,  and  the  passable  portrait  of 
Nanno  grew  slowly  upon  the  canvas.  He  was  making  her 
look  much  older  than  she  did.  The  expression  of  Fate, 
although  she  saw  it  every  time,  escaped  the  intelligence  of 
his  brush.  There  was  nothing  in  the  picture  to  recom- 
mend it.  But  he  struggled  on,  believing  that  with  every 
fresh  daub  of  paint  it  would  come.  It  never  came. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  laid  down  his  brushes  and 
crossed  the  room  to  the  row  of  pegs  that  had  been  attached 
to  the  wall. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  you  home,"  he  said,  taking  down  his 
soft  felt  hat. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  the  throne  where  she  was 
still  sitting,  and  then  she  broke  down.  He  was  going  to 
see  her  home;  but  there  was  no  such  place  for  her.  She 
could  not  go  back  and  face  Miss  Shand.  There  still  re- 
mained a  sum  of  money  which  she  owed  to  Mrs.  Hudson. 
The  sudden  realization  which,  until  that  moment,  she  had 
been  too  dazed  to  perceive,  now  broke  forth  upon  her  be- 
wildered understanding.  There  was  her  child  to  think  of 
this  time.  She  could  not  walk  the  streets  as  once  she  had 
clone  before.  The  moment  had  actually  come  now.  She 
knew  that  she  was  about  to  take  the  lower  groove  from 
which  it  would  be  so  difficult  to  rise  again.  She  knew  that 
this  man  would  accept  her — pay  for  her — keep  her.  It 
was  because  she  realized  that  it  had  come  to  the  moment 
when  she  must  receive  such  protection,  that  she  cried  as 
though  her  heart  were  breaking. 

In  a  moment  he  had  thrown  away  his  hat  and  was  at  her 
knees. 


342  TRAFFIC. 

"  What  on  earth's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked,  amazed. 

She  shook  the  tears  out  of  her  eyes  and  stood  up.  There 
was  a  show  of  daring  in  her  face;  her  lips  were  set  tight. 
At  last  she  was  facing  the  fate  that  had  crept  at  her  heels 
from  the  moment  when  the  English  artist  had  won  Bridget 
from  herself.  She  was  facing  it,  as  she  had  faced  Jamesy 
on  the  first  occasion  when  he  had  struck  her;  as  she  had 
faced  Mr.  Mossop  when  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her.  Let  it 
come — let  it  take  her !  It  had  waited  long  enough.  There 
was  only  one  person  in  the  world  who  would  care  if  he 
knew.  She  would  not  let  his  name  enter  her  thoughts. 
Let  it  take  her !  It  had  played  a  waiting  game  better  than 
she.  This  did  not  rob  her  of  the  grace  of  the  Church.  Re- 
pentance would  not  be  so  hard  a  thing  when  she  hated  her- 
self for  what  she  was  about  to  do — even  in  the  beginning 
of  it.  There  would  be  infinite  absolution  for  the  man  who 
stole  the  loaf ;  there  would  be  infinite  absolution  for  her. 
He  was  not  a  thief  in  mind ;  only  in  body.  And  so  was  it 
with  her.  She  felt  that  if  she  went  out  into  the  streets, 
she  could  not  fail  to  take  her  life.  Work  had  been  so  im- 
possible to  obtain;  she  would  not  find  the  hope  of  it  to 
bear  her  up  then.  For  a  moment  she  stood  listening.  A 
heavy  shower  of  rain  was  pattering  down  on  to  the  glass 
roof  of  the  studio.  She  heard  it  rattle. like  little  pebbles 
on  the  panes.  If  she  were  to  go  out  into  that,  assuredly 
before  morning  broke  she  would  have  taken  her  life  and 
her  child's  as  well.  The  Church  would  not  condone  that. 
Murder  and  suicide !  She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  eyes  and 
shivered. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  repeated  Aimes  at  her  feet. 
"  Don't  you  want  to  go  back  home  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  home,"  she  said  stoically.  "  I  live  nowhere. 
Miss  Shand  won't  have  me  with  her  any  more." 

He  raised  himself  quickly,  like  a  hound  that  is  freecl 


TRAFFIC.  343 

from  the  leash.  The  scent  of  the  prey  was  in  his  nostrils 
— the  end  of  the  chase  was  in  his  eyes. 

"  My  God !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  has  she  turned  you  out  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — walk  about  the  streets."  If  he  would 
not  offer  to  take  her,  she  knew  it  would  be  the  end  of 
everything.  She  began  to  plead  that  the  vice  would  not 
fail  him  at  the  last  moment. 

"  But  you  can't — it's  pouring  with  rain." 

"  I've  been  out  in  the  rain  at  night  before  now,"  she  re- 
plied. The  remembrance  of  that  evening  when  she  had 
first  left  Jamesy  flashed  across  her  mind.  The  whole  pic- 
ture— the  night,  black  as  ink;  the  dawn,  sickly  and  gray — 
all  came  and  went  in  a  moment. 

"  But  you  can't  go  out  with  the  baby  to-night.  You'd 
be  dead  in  the  morning." 

"  Where  can  I  go,  then  ?  " 

"  Stay  here — stay  with  me — always  with  me,  Nanno. 

She  sat  down  on  the  model's  chair  again  and  laughed. 
The  man  had  risen  to  the  flesh — who  could  doubt  it? 
Aimes  felt  the  cold  sweat  on  his  hands  when  he  heard  her 
laugh. 

"  Why  that  ?  "  he  asked.    "  Why  laugh  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  you  care  for  me  enough  ?  Haven't  I  tried 
enough  to  please  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Why  do  you  keep  on  saying,  '  I  don't  know'  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence.  Her  eyes  blinked.  For  a 
moment  she  thought  her  reason  was  going. 

"  Nanno  !  "  he  exclaimed.  He  fancied  that  the  protesta- 
tions of  his  affection  might  bring  her  back  into  a  more 
reasonable  frame  of  mind,  "  Nanno,  you'll  stay  with  me, 


3-1-1  TRAFFIC. 

Can't  you  see  I've  wanted  this  all  along?  That  first  night 
I  saw  you  at  Miss  Shand's;  do  you  remember  I  was  just 
saying  that  nothing  in  this  world  was  divine?  Then  I 
looked  up  and  saw  your  face.  Xanno,  I  thought  you  were 
divine  then.  I've  thought  so  ever  since.  And  then  there's 
the  baby  " — he  scrambled  quickly  to  his  feet  and  brought 
the  creature  from  his  bedroom.,  placing  it  on  her  lap.  She 
sat  there  motionless  on  the  throne.  Lot's  wife  turned  to  a 
pillar  of  salt — turned  to  a  model  of  cold,  white  clay — from 
the  moment  when  she  had  looked  in  the  eyes  of  her  destiny. 

"Here's  the  baby,"  Aimes  went  on,  lifting  up  its  tiny 
hand  and  waving  it  to  her.  "  We'll  take  care  of  that — 
both  of  us.  It's  going  to  be  our  child." 

The  advent  of  this  third  person  seemed  to  bring  life  into 
her.  She  stood  up  gripping  the  child  in  her  hands  and 
looking  wildly  into  its  eyes  as  though  in  the  pale  blue 
shallows  she  expected  to  find  reason  for  all  things.  He 
watched  her,  fearing  that  she  might  do  something  rash  in 
her  desperation. 

"Just  we  three,"  he  said  feebly;  driveling  whatever 
words  came  to  his  lips.  He  had  a  horror  of  tragedy,  and 
felt  on  the  brink  of  one.  Another  step,  and  the  sheer  edge 
was  reached.  He  remembered  his  experiences  with  other 
women  in  hysterics.  His  reason  started,  ready  to  bolt  with 
hers. 

Still  she  stood  there  saying  nothing.  Had  he  been  able 
to  watch  her  eyes,  he  would  have  seen  them  growing  more 
dazed,  more  and  more  lifeless.  The  suggestion  that  there, 
as  she  stood,  was  the  study  for  a  great  picture — the  mother 
of  an  illegitimate  child — fled  through  his  mind,  not  wait- 
ing to  grip  his  real  understanding,  chased  by  a  thousand 
hounds  of  fear  that  she  was  contemplating  murder.  He 
waited  in  readiness  to  seize  her  if  she  tried,  all  the  time  un- 
consciously swept  with  a  passionate  admiration  for  her  as 


TRAFFIC.  345 

she  unwittingly  posed  on  the  model's  throne.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  he  had  mistaken  his  prey.  He  had  thought 
her  used  to  the  game ;  playing  only  to  be  won.  He  found 
her  sensitive,  shy  as  a  young  colt  in  the  field. 

At  last  she  looked  round  at  him  with  a  wonderful  calm. 

"  You'd  take  the  child — as  well  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  distant 
voice. 

"  Yes — yes — haven't  I  said  so  ?  "  He  hurried  forward. 
"  Let  me  hold  it  for  you — you're  tired."  He  stretched  out 
his  hands,  but  she  folded  both  her  arms  round  the  infant 
body  and  turned  away. 


BOOK  VI. 

THE  END  OF  THE  TRAFFIC. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  YEAR  had  woven  itself  out  on  the  loom  of  Time  since 
that  night  of  Xanno's  despoiling.  During  all  that  period, 
even  since  last  he  had  seen  her,  Jerningham  had  not  al- 
tered his  method  of  going.  He  was  essentially  a  man  to 
whom  change  is  impervious.  The  iron  had  entered  his  soul 
when  he  left  her.  He  wrenched  it  out,  when  he  had  seated 
himself  to  write  that  letter  which — so  long  ago  it  seemed 
to  both  of  them — she  had  received  from  Mr.  Mossop's 
hands  in  the  restaurant. 

From  that  day  he  had  become  once  more  the  inveterate 
bachelor.  New  friends  he  made  and  old  ones  left  him  to 
enter  matrimony,  a  college  where  many  graduate,  where 
the  cloisters  are  long  and  the  time  for  meditation — lavish. 
Jerningham  found  that  most  of  them  disappeared.  Only 
he  was  left  remaining  in  the  old  place;  but  the  strain  of 
a  deeper  sentiment  than  he  was  aware  of  had  grown  into 
and  maintained  its  hold  upon  his  nature.  In  the  first 
place,  he  had  changed  the  position  of  one  of  his  old  arm- 
chairs, the  one  upon  which  he  had  seated  Xanno  when  she 
came  to  have  tea  in  his  rooms.  Where  he  had  placed  it  on 
that  day  it  was  left  and,  by  the  side  of  it,  he  put  the  other 
seat  that  he  had  occupied. 

Frequently  when  men  came  up  to  see  him  in  the  evening, 
they  would  look  at  the  vacant  chair  pulled  up  towards  the 
fire  and  ask  him  whether  some  one  had  been  in  and  who  it 
was.  This  is  to  say  that  those  of  his  friends,  possessed  of 

849 


350  TRAFFIC. 

keener  observation  than  the  rest,  had  been  known  to  put 
the  question.  He  always  answered  in  the  same  way. 

"  Yes,  some  one's  been  up  here." 

*'  Any  one  I  know  ?  "  would  follow. 

«  No— no,  I  shouldn't  think  so." 

The  matter  usually  dropped  there. 

Now  clearly  that  was  nothing  but  sentiment.  Accused 
of  it,  he  would  have  denied  the  charge — the  more  emphatic- 
ally as  time  went  on — with  a  certain  amount  of  contempt 
for  the  accuser.  Yet  he  never  changed  their  positions, 
until  in  time  the  arrangement  grew  almost  to  be  a  habit. 
He  could  find  them  in  the  dark. 

To  a  slight  extent  his  affairs  upon  the  Stock  Exchange 
prospered,  but  he  was  never  liable  to  become  rich.  His 
ambitions  rose  no  higher  than  Plowden  Buildings.  Every 
Friday,  four  men  came  into  his  rooms  for  poker;  unless 
the  condition  of  the  markets  made  them  hesitate  in  front 
of  a  meal  before  they  decided  whether  they  could  afford  to 
sit  down  to  it.  On  those  evenings  he  lit  his  colossal  wax 
candles  in  their  barbaric  sconces.  With  a  certain  amount 
of  recklessness,  he  filled  the  brass  lamps  with  oil.  Directly 
he  came  in  from  dining  at  a  neighboring  tavern  in  Fleet 
Street,  he  stoked  a  fire  that  would  have  shamed  the 
most  generous  of  householders.  A  large  German  sausage, 
a  loaf  of  bread,  glasses,  and  an  indigestible  cake  were  laid 
on  a  small  side  table  which,  like  most  of  the  rest  of  his 
furniture,  had  fallen  to  his  bidding  in  an  auction-room, 
where  only  dust  and  dealers  were  ever  to  be  found.  More 
candles  were  lighted  on  the  card-table — lighted  in  old 
brass  candlesticks  that  come  in  their  shiploads  from  Hol- 
land. New  packs  of  cards  were  uncased,  a  box  of  vari- 
colored counters  were  produced;  then,  looking  finally 
around  the  room  to  see  if  more  were  needed,  he  would 
go  into  his  bedroom,  returning  arrayed  in  a  dark  blue 


TRAFFIC.  351 

smock  that  would  have  lent  disfigurement  to  the  Apollo 
Belvedere.  But  the  men  who  came  for  poker  were  no 
critics  of  appearances  and,  in  any  case,  they  took  Jer- 
ningham  as  they  found  him. 

This  Friday  in  every  week  was  an  invariable  institu- 
tion. But  beyond  that  he  made  his  arrangements  as 
they  came.  A  client  might  dine  with  him  one  day;  he 
might  dine  with  a  client  the  next.  Occasionally  he  went 
to  a  theatre,  usually  by  himself,  but  most  of  his  nights 
were  spent  in  chambers  alone,  where  he  read  till  midnight, 
and  then  retired. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  just  preparing  to  go  out  to 
his  tavern  dinner,  the  brass  knocker  rattled  on  the  inner 
door.  He  crossed  the  hall  and  opened  it. 

"  Is  that  Sturgis  ? "  he  queried,  peering  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  landing.  "  By  Jove,  yes*!  Come  in !  " 

Sturgis,  a  man  who  lived  also  in  the  Temple,  yet  of 
whom  he  saw  but  little  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other, 
walked  into  the  hall,  laying  his  hat  on  a  plaster  bust  that 
graced  an  oak  cabinet.  Jerningham  removed  it  and  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  sitting-room. 

"  Have  you  dined  ?  "  he  asked. 

Sturgis  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  come  to  Williams',  I'm  just  going  there  to 
feed?" 

"  And  what  afterwards  ?  "  Sturgis  was  the  essence  of 
lethargy.  He  made  a  contract  with  every  sentence  which 
he  used,  that  it  should  contain  as  few  words  as  possible. 

"I  don't  mind — do  you  particularly  want  to  go  any- 
where?" 

"  Somewhat — been  up  in  chambers  every  night  this 
week." 

"  We'll  go  to  the  Eegent,  then.", 

"  That'll  do." 


352  TRAFFIC. 

"  In  fact,  what  you  would  have  suggested  yourself  ?  " 

"  Probably." 

"  Eegent,  then — come  on !  " 

He  waited  for  his  friend  to  pass  out  on  to  the  stairs; 
then  he  closed  both  the  doors.  The  sound  of  their  shut- 
ting echoed  through  the  empty  building  and  up  the  lane. 
In  such  a  manner  as  this,  Jerningham  found  occasional 
evenings  accounted  for.  Sturgis  was  nothing  but  a  com- 
panion with  whom  to  eat  his  meal.  After  that  night, 
he  would  probably  not  see  him  again  for  three,  or  even 
six  months. 

At  Williams',  a  tavern  that  still  clung  to  the  old- 
time  custom  of  high-backed  benches,  and  a  grill  that  was 
within  sight  of  the  diners,  they  conversed  intermittently 
through  their  fare.  Sturgis  held  some  post  on  one  of  the 
newspapers,  and  was  possessed  of  a  varied  experience 
which  expressed  itself  in  an  abrupt  form  of  speech  that 
reminded  one  of  head-lines.  Once  in  a  way,  like  this, 
his  company  was  amusing  to  Jerningham.  The  same 
might  be  said  of  Jerningham  with  regard  to  Sturgis. 
Their  grooves  were  too  isolated  for  them  ever  to  unite 
in  a  contact  of  sympathy.  They  had  known  each  other 
for  five  years,  and  only  on  occasions  such  as  these,  did 
they  meet — ships  of  the  great  trade,  coming  into  a  com- 
mon port  and  for  an  hour  or  so  laying  up  alongside  each 
other,  only  to  be  separated  immediately  by  a  long  voyage 
across  foreign  waters. 

They  sat  over  dinner  for  an  hour,  and  when  the  saucer 
of  the  cup  of  coffee  opposite  Sturgis  was  littered  with  ash 
and  the  ends  of  cigarettes,  and  Jerningham's  pipe  had 
been  knocked  out  against  his  heel  to  be  refilled,  they  both 
rose.  At  a  sign,  an  obsequious  waiter  hurried  forward 
and  helped  them  on  with  their  coats. 

"  Good-night,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 


TRAFFIC.  353 

"  Good-night/'  they  replied  in  chorus. 

The  Kegent  was  its  mass  of  lights.  Every  niche  that 
held  a  space  contained  a  light.  Wherever  a  shadow  might 
have  fallen,  an  electric  flame  defied  it.  Like  most  places 
of  modern  entertainment,  it  depended  heavily  upon  its 
brilliancy.  Things  genuine  left  the  world  in  a  body  when 
the  lantern  was  extinguished ;  things  tinseled  took  their 
place  when  electricity  began  to  dazzle  the  eyes.  Only  a 
real  diamond  will  answer  to  the  rays  of  a  candle;  the 
poorest  performer  that  night  at  the  Regent  blazed  with 
gems  behind  the  modern  footlights. 

Sturgis  and  Jerningham  took  their  seats  in  the  back 
of  the  parterre,  some  distance  from  the  rows  of  the  white 
triangles  of  bare  backs  and  shoulders.  They  were  not  in 
evening  dress.  Sturgis  pulled  affectionately  at  a  heavy 
cigar. 

For  a  while  they  kept  their  seats,  watching  the  per- 
formance. A  French  chanteuse  sang  songs  in  broken 
English,  making  a  hit  with  intentional  mispronuncia- 
tions. Following  her  was  the  unavoidable  tramp  musi- 
cian, who  got  more  applause  when  he  played  his  instru- 
ments execrably  than  when  he  did  his  best.  Jerningham 
yawned  once  or  twice  and,  in  an  endeavor  to  conceal  it 
from  Sturgis,  noticed  that  his  friend's  eyes  were  closed. 

The  last  item  before  the  Ballet  were  two  Parisian  dan- 
cers, male  and  female — according  to  the  programme,  hus- 
band and  wife.  The  moment  that  they  commenced  their 
turn,  men  in  the  audience  leaned  forward  in  their  seats 
and  women  raised  their  glasses.  All  the  subtlet}T  of 
French  dancing  was  here  condensed  to  one  purpose. 
Never  for  a  moment  did  it  hesitate  to  convey  its  impres- 
sion. In  a  gauzy  dress  that  clung  with  every  motion  to 
her  shapely  figure,  the  woman  struck  her  attitudes  of  de- 
fiant sensualism,  and  the  audience  cheered.  In  one  of  the 
23 


354  TRAFFIC. 

stage  boxes  a  crowd  of  young  men  shouted  vociferously,  re- 
gardless of  the  fact  that  the  rest  of  the  audience  was  watch- 
ing them.  Some  of  them  leaned  out  over  the  velvet  rail 
and  with  flushed  faces  directed  their  applause  to  her  very 
feet. 

"We  call  ourselves  moralists  and  point  to  the  Folies 
Bergeres,"  remarked  Sturgis.  "  These  people  come  over 
here  because  they  can't  get  an  audience  like  this  in  Paris. 
Where,  on  God's  earth,  except  in  England,  would  they  turn 
an  opera  house  into  a  dancing-den  and  hire  boxes  from 
which  so-called  respectable  women  may  go  and  see  their 
husbands  dancing  with  the  scum?  Come  and  have  a 
drink." 

They  ascended  to  the  bar,  where  the  files  of  women 
passed  endlessly  to  and  fro  and  the  groups  of  English 
gentlemen  linked  arms  and  ogled  them. 

"  Look  at  that !  "  said  Sturgis. 

Jerningham  looked  in  the  direction  that  he  indicated. 
A  gentleman  and  his  wife  were  making  their  way  to  a 
box  on  the  tier  above  the  parterre.  A  young  girl,  evidently 
their  daughter  and  not  older  than  twenty,  accompanied 
them. 

"  Here  you  can  get  life  raw,"  went  on  Sturgis,  "  caught 
in  the  flesh  and  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  and  a  fond 
English  father,  who  wouldn't  permit  his  daughter  to  read 
the  most  abridged  translation  of  a  French  classic,  will 
drag  that  slip  of  innocence  through  the  very  shambles 
itself.  The  morals  of  the  Englishman  amaze  me.  He  will 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  truth,  but  he  loves  inordinately  to  find 
the  occasion  on  which  to  shut  them.  You  won't  catch  him 
avoiding  the  occasion — not  likely.  He  likes  to  keep  his 
eyes  open  till  just  the  last  moment — then  shut  them — 
snap!  Like  that."  Sturgis  screwed  up  his  eyes  with  a 
grimace.  "  Then  he  imagines  the  rest." 


TRAFFIC.  355 

"  What's  yours  ? "  asked  the  un journalistic  Jerning- 
ham. 

"  Scotch — soda.     But  haven't  you  noticed  that  ?  " 

Jerningham  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  not  of  your  observant  type/'  he  said  quietly.  "  It's 
probably  quite  true " 

"  Of  course  it's  true/'  Sturgis  affirmed.  The  absence 
of  contradiction  encouraged  him.  "  Look  at  that  ever- 
lasting phrase — one  of  the  things  that  are  better  not  talked 
about.  Lord !  The  times  I've  heard  that.  '  But  don't 
you  think  that  that  is  one  of  the  things  that  are  far  better 
left  untalked  of  ?  '  Great  heavens  !  If  that  doesn't  come 
into  the  catechism  of  the  Prayer  Book,  which  is  dedi- 
cated to  one  of  the  kings  of  England,  it  ought  to !  What 
is  your  duty  to  your  neighbor?  My  duty  to  my  neigh- 
bor is  to  leave  unsaid  those  things  that  ought  to  be  said. 
I  think  I'll  revise  the  catechism  for  the  '  Leader '." 

Jerningham  smiled.  "  I  would,"  he  said,  "  if  I  were 
you,  and  when  you've  thoroughly  mastered  what  it  con- 
tains at  present."  His  smile  lingered  on  after  his  words, 
then  suddenly  was  frozen  from  his  lips.  On  a  seat  by  her- 
self, outside  in  the  promenade,  a  girl  was  sitting  dis- 
consolately. His  mind  felt  sick  as  he  watched  her.  Up 
to  that  moment  only  her  side  face  met  his  view,  but  when 
she  turned  his  suspicion  was  confirmed.  He  recognized 
her.  It  was  Xanno. 

Sturgis  swallowed  his  whisky,  and  turning  saw  Jerning- 
ham's  face. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"  You'll  have  to  excuse  me,"  said  Jerningham  abruptly. 
"I  see  some  one  I  know.  I'm  sorry  for  running  off  like 
this." 

"  Thought  I  should  have  gone  before  you." 


356  TRAFFIC. 

"  So  did  I,"  Jerningham  replied  candidly.  "  Good- 
night." 

His  perturbed  manner  amazed  Sturgis,  who  watched 
the  reflection  of  his  approach  to  Nanno  in  a  mirror  with 
which  such  places  abound.  Then  he  turned  away  with  a 
sententious  laugh.  There  was  no  accounting  for  the  taste 
of  any  man. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BEFORE  she  had  seen  him,  he  had  taken  the  vacant  seat 
next  to  her  and,  even  then,  until  she  had  turned  in  the 
first  essay  of  making  conversation,  she  did  not  recognize 
who  he  was. 

"  What  do  you  think ?  "  of  the  performance,  she 

was  about  to  add. 

"  Nanno,"  said  Jerningham. 

For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  wither.  He  was  watching 
her,  and  the  recoil  of  her  body  from  his  side  reminded  him 
of  the  snail  that  is  repulsed  into  its  shell.  In  that  brief 
instant,  twenty  years  had  swept  across  her  face. 

"  Mr.  Jerningham ! "  she  whispered.  From  force  of 
habit  the  words  found  their  way  to  her  lips.  Still  he 
looked  at  her  and  a  troop  of  pictures,  like  a  passing 
show,  made  passage  across  his  mind.  He  saw  her  at 
every  period  of  their  acquaintance.  He  recalled  her  as 
when  they  had  first  met;  blossoming,  healthy  woman- 
hood, her  cheeks  tinged  with  the  warmth  of  the  sun,  her 
hair  the  shadow  of  the  brown  earth,  her  eyes  the  gray 
of  a  deep  evening  sky.  That  was  what  she  had  been; 
this  was  what  she  had  become.  His  eyes  refocussed  them- 
selves upon  the  present,  and  he  saw  the  pale,  thin  cheeks 
tinged  with  an  artificial  red,  the  earth-brown  hair  a 
shadow  that  no  sun  has  lit,  and  her  big,  gray  eyes,  luster- 
less,  somber,  sad. 

"  Nanno,"  he  repeated.  He  tried  his  utmost  to  believe 
that  it  was  a  mistake.  He  waited  eagerly  for  her  to  tell 

357 


358  TRAFFIC. 

him  that  she  did  not  answer  to  the  name.  He  repeated 
it  as  a  woman  reading  the  casualty  list  of  war  repeats, 
for  her  assurance,  the  name  of  the  dead. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Jerningham,,"  she  said  again.  Then  he 
looked  away.  The  other  women  strolled  past  him  with 
tightened  skirts  and  swinging  purses.  This  was  the  mar- 
ket-place. Life  here,  as  Sturgis  had  said,  was  raw,  caught 
in  the  flesh,  hanging  from  the  ceiling.  The  drip,  drip, 
drip  of  honor  and  restraint  sickened  him.  The  air  reeked 
of  life  putrescent.  He  turned  back  again  to  Nanno. 

"  We'll  come  out  of  this,"  he  said  steadily. 

"Where?  "she  asked. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"I  can't  go  home  with  you,"  she  said  brokenly.  This 
was  the  perfection  of  agony  to  her,  that  he  should  take 
her  at  once  for  what  she  was. 

"  But  where  do  you  live  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  You  mustn't  come  back  with  me,"  she  answered. 

Jerningham  frowned.  He  felt  in  no  humor  to  play  with 
the  situation.  Their  surroundings  did  not  call  for  a 
wasting  of  words;  he  felt  impatient  to  be  gone. 

"  This  sort  of  dallying  won't  do,  ISTanno,"  he  said 
firmly.  "The  sooner  you  tell  me,  the  sooner  we  can 
get  away  from  this."  He  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Come  along 
— oh,  I  assure  you  I  don't  intend  that  you  should  be  a 
loser."  A  wave  of  bitterness  had  swept  the  words  out 
of  him.  They  stung  her  like  pebbles  that  the  sea  slings 
in  its  rage. 

Nanno  looked  up  at  his  face  and  knew  that  she  must 
obey.  There  had  only  been  one  thing  in  her  life  to  which 
he  had  been  unable- to  command  her,  and  that,  because 
she  had  fled  from  the  sphere  of  his  influence.  In  every- 
thing else  she  knew  that  she  was  dominated  by  him. 
Fiercely,  heroically  though  she  had  clung  through  all  trib- 


TRAFFIC.  359 

ulation  to  the  law  of  her  Church — far  more  tenaciously 
than  he  would  ever  have  done  under  similar  circum- 
stances— it  was  yet  a  clinging  of  fear.  Her  apparent 
strength  had  been  her  ultimate  weakness.  It  had 
brought  her  to  what  he  saw  her  then.  And  still,  not- 
withstanding all,  she  clung  to  the  iron  handle  of  the  open 
door  of  her  creed. 

They  walked  down  the  stairs  together  to  the  main 
entrance,  saying  nothing.  A  few  turned  and  looked  after 
them,  thinking  that  they  knew  their  destination.  One 
woman  with  yellow  hair  swung  her  purse  and  raised  her 
painted  eyebrows. 

Outside,  Jerningham  nodded  to  a  hansom. 

"  What's  the  address  ? "  he  asked  her  again,  for  the 
third  time. 

She  gave  it  to  him  submissively.  He  repeated  it  plainly 
to  the  cabman.  Then  they  took  their  seats,  and  the  cab 
pulled  away  from  the  curb  into  the  traffic. 

A  little  flat,  one  amongst  a  hundred  others  compressed 
into  a  row  of  buildings,  was  ±s  anno's  abode.  They  climbed 
up  the  stone  stairs  with  their  iron  railings,  still  saying 
nothing.  ISTanno  walked  two  steps  ahead.  At  the  door 
bearing  her  number  she  stopped. 

"  Oh,  don't  come  in,  Mr.  Jerningham,"  she  pleaded, 
turning  round  to  him  piteously. 

"Why?"  He  asked  abruptly. 

She  tried  to  smooth  out  the  tangle  of  her  thoughts 
with  her  hand  across  her  forehead. 

"  Can't  you  see  it's  not  for  men  like  you  that  I'm  here  ? 
Oh,  I  couldn't!" 

For  a  moment  the  inconsistency  of  her  appeal  came  be- 
fore the  realization  that  she  had  not  understood  his  in- 
tentions. The  bitterness  at  finding  her  thus  was  becoming 
harder  eve  IT  minute  to  control. 


360  TRAFFIC. 

"I  can't  follow  you,"  he  said,  with  intense  quiet. 
"Why  make  an  exception  of  me?  You've  got  your  trade 
to  ply,  irrespective  of  persons.  Why  hesitate  at  my 
soul?" 

She  shuddered. 

"  You  said  you  loved  me  once,"  she  replied. 

Then  he  understood  her  inconsistency.  A  rush  of  senti- 
ment sped  through  him.  She  could  not  treat  him  as  other 
men,  because  he  once  had  said  he  loved  her;  perhaps 
because  she  still  loved  him.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
this  being  sentiment.  He  told  himself  so  and  shook 
it  from  him. 

"  I  think  you  may  as  well  open  the  door,"  he  said  un- 
emotionally, "  My  motives  in  bringing  you  back  are  not 
what  you  take  them  to  be.  I'll  stay  only  for  a  very  short 
time,  if  you  wish  it." 

She  drew  out  her  latch-key  and  opened  the  door  obe- 
diently. In  his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  numberless  times 
she  had  opened  it  so  before,  with  a  man  hanging  on  her 
heels.  Why  had  he  come  back  with  her  at  all?  She 
had  now  cut  herself  adrift  from  him  forever.  Was  it 
curiosity?  Scarcely — such  an  instinct  had  no  life  in 
Jerningharn.  The  dread  he  possessed  in  becoming  inti- 
mate to  any  extent  with  the  life  that  she  was  leading,  of- 
fered no  room  for  curiosity.  He  knew  that  he  would  be 
jarred  by  everything  that  he  saw.  Then  once  more,  why 
had  he  come?  A  sense  of  pity  for  the  condition  of  her 
life  was  one  reason.  A  hope  that  there  was  yet  salva-* 
tion  for  her  was  another.  He  felt,  or  realized,  no  re- 
sponsibility; but  having  once  had  all  life  in  common  with 
her,  he  could  not  bear  to  see  her  being  run  to  earth.  There 
was  no  absurdly  sanctimonious  idea  in  his  thoughts  when 
he  regarded  the  situation.  A  course  of  training  is  re- 
quired for  a  man  to  look  diregt  to  the  welfare  of  a  wo- 


TRAFFIC.  361 

man's  soul.  The  spiritual  side  of  the  matter  did  not  occur 
to  him.  He  only  thought  of  the  wretchedness  of  her 
life,  the  squalid  misery  of  it.  Once  he  had  nearly  claimed 
that  life  for  himself.  Once  it  had  been  his  greatest  inter- 
est. He  could  not  afford  to  see  it  go  under  without  an 
effort  for  the  sake  of  what  had,  or  might  have  been. 
These  reasons,  as  he  gave  them  to  himself  in  answer 
to  his  own  question,  seemed  reasonable  enough — satisfac- 
tory; but  they  were  not  the  intrinsic  truth.  The  man  who 
can  tell  himself  the  naked  truth  is  no  prey  for  the  devil. 
Facts  prove  that  there  are  few. 

The  truth  was  that  Jerningham,  once  loving,  loved 
always.  His  friends  had  not  nicknamed  him  the  bachelor 
without  reason.  A  hard  grain  of  truth  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  every  nickname,  if  only  a  schoolboy  dubs  it.  Jerning- 
ham would  have  paced  out  his  way,  inevitably  bachelor, 
if  Xanno  had  not  found  him  that  day  kneeling  behind 
the  hedge  in  John  Troy's  fields  with  a  gun  uncocked  be- 
side him.  But  once  having  found  him  and,  in  his  nature, 
having  roused  that  passion  which  he  and  his  friends  had 
believed  to  be  non-existent,  there  was  nothing  in  life 
that  could  absolutely  quell  it  in  its  former  state  of 
nonentity.  He  loved  her  still.  Honor,  a  sense  of  shame, 
a  disgust  of  degradation,  might  offend  him  to  the  deepest 
foundations  of  his  intellect.  He  might  leave  her  forever 
and  shut  her  out  of  the  wanderings  of  his  thoughts,  yet 
there  within  him,  apart  from  any  intellect,  duping  all 
^reason,  would  still  continue  to  burn  the  secret  fire  that 
made  its  own  existence  and  would  not  be  put  out.  He 
succeeded  in  taking  no  notice  of  it.  He  clamped  it  down 
with  the  coldest  reasoning  and  the  most  impenetrable 
aloofness.  In  time,  no  doubt,  it  would  be  choked  with  the 
fumes  of  its  own  consumption;  but  while  it  burned  and 
so  long  as  it  burned,  he  presumed  to  ignore  its  presence. 


362  TRAFFIC. 

Following  her  into  the  cramped  passage  from  which 
opened  the  doors  of  the  sitting-room  and  kitchen,  he  waited 
while  she  shut  the  outer  door;  then  stood  aside  for  her 
to  pass  him. 

With  a  motion  of  habit,  she  switched  on  the  electric 
light.  In  the  dreaded  expectation  that  he  would  find 
sordid  and  showy  vulgarity  upon  the  walls  and  all  about 
him,  he  was  mercifully  disappointed.  So  far  as  that  was 
concerned,  the  Nanno'that  he  had  once  known  had  not 
changed.  The  walls  had  their  plain,  unimposing  paper, 
the  floor  its  unobtrusive  carpet,  the  furnishing  its  ordi- 
nary chairs  and  table.  The  first  impression  that  forced 
itself  upon  him  was  that  she  was  poor  and  his  heart  asked 
him  how  she,  with  her  gentle  mind,  could  every  ply  the 
trade  at  all?  He  disdained  an  answer  to  the  question. 
Yet  there  the  fact  was  obvious.  She  was  not  successful. 
There  was  no  sign  of  even  the  slightest  attention  that  had 
ever  been  paid  her.  He  could  see  it  all — his  heart  helped 
him.  She  treated  men  coldly.  She  hated  them  one  and 
all — of  course  she  hated  them — and  could  not  conceal 
her  hatred.  And  the  result?  They  left  her  and  they 
did  not  come  again.  There  rose  in  his  throat  the  choking 
pressure  of  pity  for  the  awfulness  of  her  life.  Again  he 
drove  it  back.  She  might  have  married  him.  He  would 
have  given  her  life  that  was  fresh,  clean,  worth  living. 
Instead,  she  had  chosen  this.  Why  should  he  pity  her? 
He  shut  his  heart  as  the  watchman  shuts  the  gates  of  a 
city  at  night,  and  left  her  shuddering  outside — an  out- 
cast. All  day  long  the  gates  had  been  open,  from  sun- 
rise until  sunset.  If  she  had  come  sooner — it  might  have 
been  different.  What  excuse  was  there  for  those  who 
dragged  their  bodies  out  at  night  and  then,  thinking 
to  find  better  shelter  from  within,  knocked  imploringly 
at  the  iron  tracings?  His  heart  reminded  him  that  as 


TRAFFIC.  363 

yet  she  had  not  knocked.  She  had  begged  him  not  to  re- 
turn with  her.  He  accepted  the  reminder  and  tried  to 
put  aside  the  pack  of  thoughts  that  strained  at  the  leash 
within  him. 

Walking  across  to  the  fireplace,  he  turned  round  to  find 
her  seated  at  the  table  with  her  head  in  her  hands. 

"  Xanno,"  he  said  quietly,  "  you  don't  understand  my 
motive  in  coming  here,  do  you?" 

She  looked  up  with  dry,  tired  eyes. 

"  No,  I  don't  understand." 

"  You  thought  at  first  that  I  had  come  in  the  ordinary 
way,  to  add  one  to  the  list  of  the  many  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  know.  I  suppose  " — she  hesitated — "  I  sup- 
pose I  don't  suggest  anything  else.  But  I  wouldn't  have 
anything  to  do  with  you  if  you  did.  The  men  I  see  are 
not  fit  to  touch  the  boots  you  wear.  I  loathe  them.  The 
only  hope  they  can  have  is  that  they  may  come  to  loathe 
themselves,  and  loathe  me  too  as  much  as  I  loathe  myself." 

"  Then,  good  God !  what  made  you  come  to  this  ?  " 

The  words  were  rent  from  him.  Ever  since  he  had  seen 
her.  the  question  had  been  seething  in  his  mind.  In  one 
moment  of  reality  it  forced  its  way  into  expression,  and 
from  that  moment,  Nanno  felt  that  sympathy  in  him 
was  dead ;  a  dried  and  withered  leaf  that  the  first  footfall 
would  crush  into  obscurity. 

In  the  very  beginning,  when  he  had  turned  round  to 
her  from  the  fireplace,  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  shadow 
of  his  old  interest,  his  old  concern  for  her  welfare.  Had 
that  tone  in  his  voice  continued,  she  would  have  told  him 
everything;  unfolded  to  him  that  piteous  picture  of  her 
downfall.  Within  the  telling  and  an  hour,  she  would 
have  drawn  from  him  the  pity  of  his  love.  He  could  not 
have  withheld  it.  Only  from  those  whose  moral  virtue 
seems  to  them  triumphant,  could  forgiveness  have  been 


364  TRAFFIC. 

held  back.  But  now  his  question  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  drove  her  within  herself;  frightened  her  into  the 
reticence  of  her  own  mind.  She  knew  that  she  could  tell 
him  nothing.  If  he  poured  the  vitriol  of  his  contempt 
upon  the  aching  heart  that  throbbed  so  listlessly  her 
pulses,  she  knew  that  she  must  let  him  remain  ignorant 
until  the  end. 

"  I  don't  ask  it  out  of  curiosity,"  he  went  on,  strangled, 
tortured  with  the  astringency  of  his  own  bitterness.  "  I 
suppose  God  knows  how  many  men  haven't  dug  with  a 
spade  in  the  mud  to  find  that  much  from  you.  I  ask  be- 
cause of  what  I  knew  you  once  to  be.  Why  ?  Lord !  isn't 
there  a  sufficiency  of  trades  for  women  to  ply  without 
coming  to  this.  Why  did  you,  Nanno  ?  Why  did  you  ?  " 

"  One  has  to  live,"  she  replied  quietly. 

"Has  to  live!  Come,  I  am  not  such  a  fool,  that  I 
can't  take  that  for  granted.  Weren't  you  living  in  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  comfort  when  I  saw  you  last?  Why 
couldn't  you  stick  to  that  ?  Discontented  ?  Eh  ?  " 

"  I  was  dismissed." 

He  looked  swiftly  at  her;  let  his  eyes  burn  into  hers. 
So  a  hawk  looks  at  a  passing  swallow. 

"Why?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Why  were  you  dismissed  ?  "  he  repeated  suspiciously. 

She  would  not  reply.  She  was  watching  once  more 
the  expulsion  of  Annie  Foley,  from  Eathmore,  in  a  dark, 
distant  pool  of  her  memory.  The  incident  stood  out  with 
that  hazy  distinctness  which  leaves  so  much  to  the  imagi- 
native remembrance.  Now  she  understood  the  quality  of 
human  mercy. 

"  I  suppose  I  must  draw  my  own  conclusions,"  he  said, 
baffled.  "  It's  not  so  very  difficult  a  thing  to  do  as  you 
might  suppose.  The  hawk  had  you.  What  a  simple 


TRAFFIC.  365 

prey  you  were !  Good  God !  The  world's  full  of  hawk?. 
And  you — oh,  I  can  see  it  plainly  enough !  You  flew 
too  gently  ever  to  escape.  I  sometimes  wonder  that, 
whether  you  could  escape  in  a  quick  pursuit,  more  relent- 
less than  mine." 

She  could  not  follow  what  he  was  saying.  She  did 
not  know  what  he  meant.  Cornered  thus,  and  stung  to 
bitterness,  a  man  uses  the  best  of  his  intellect  to  stand 
high  above  the  woman. 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  to  me,"  he  asked. 

"  I  couldn't."     She  understood  him  now. 

"  In  that  last  letter  I  wrote  you,  I  told  you  that  every- 
thing I  had  was  yours." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  from  you  what  I  couldn't  pay  back," 
was  her  answer. 

"And  so  you  chose  this?" 

She  covered  her  face  again  with  her  hands. 

"  So  you  chose  this  ?  "  he  continued  relentlessly.  "  You 
found  this  preferable  to  marrying  me,  to  taking  my  name  ? 
You  thought  this  better  than  facing  a  few  cut-and-dried 
opinions  with  my  hand  to  hold  you  ?  Ogh !  And  I  could 
have  made  you  happy — made  us  both  happy — you  knew 
I  could." 

«  Yes— I  knew." 

"  Then  why  wouldn't  you  choose  to  marry  me  instead 
of  this?" 

"  I  couldn't  marry  you." 

"  Because  you  would  have  been  excommunicated  ?  " 

"  Because  the  Church  would  have  shut  its  doors  against 
me."  Even  still  she  clung  to  Father  Mehan's  simile. 
"Because  I  should  have  been  denied  the  rites  of  the 
Church." 

"  My  heavens !     Aren't  you  denied  them  now  ?  " 

"No." 


366  TRAFFIC. 

"  You  go  to  church  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  do  you  go  to  confession  ?  " 

"  I  don't  go." 

"  Then  you're  denied  that  ?  " 

"  No — for  the  sin  I  do,  I  deny  that  to  myself.  How 
could  you  know  what  that  means  to  me?  I  could  go  to 
confession  to-morrow,  if  I  wished." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"Because — because  I  still  live  here;  must  live  here 
until  I  have  saved  enough  to  keep  me  and — and — to  keep 
me." 

"And  what?" 

"  To  keep  me,"  she  repeated. 

Even  that  did  not  move  him  to  pity.  The  poison  of 
the  thought  that  he  had  lost  her  for  this,  still  found  sub- 
stance to  consume. 

"  I  positively  fail  to  see  the  benefits  of  your  position," 
he  said  drily.  "  You  can  go  to  church,  but  there  is  no 
forgiveness  for  your  sins.  You  can't  go  to  confession." 

"  But  I  shall  do,"  she  replied. 

"When?     When?" 

"When  I  can  call  myself  free.  I  pray  to  God  every 
night  to  keep  me  alive  till  then." 

She  uttered  it  triumphantly.  In  the  childish  arrogance 
of  her  faith,  she  saw  right  and  reason,  logic  and  force,  in 
all  she  said.  It  went  differently  with  him.  The  British 
instinct  stood  amazed  at  such  profession. 

"  You  think  God  takes  your  life  of  sin,  prolonged  until 
it  should  suit  you  to  put  an  end  to  it  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  You  think  God  would  take  that  in  preference  to  the  un- 
sullied, unsoiled  life  that  you  would  have  lived  with  me? 
You  think  He  takes  you  still  tarred  from  the  cauldron  of 
vice,  whensoever  you  choose  to  step  out  of  it,  rather  than 


TRAFFIC.  36T 

have  you  clean  as  I  would  have  kept  you  with  the  love 
that  only  you  have  ever  made  in  me?  It's  childish — it's 
mad ! " 

She  shuddered  as  though  a  cold  wind  had  struck  her. 

"It's  what  I  believe,"  she  said  fearfully.  "It's  what 
I'm  told  to  believe." 

He  turned  away,  lest  he  should  say  worse. 

"  So  you've  saved  your  soul  by  steeping  yourself  in 
this/'  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  You  married  a  man  who 
was  not  fit  to  call  any  woman  his  wife.  The  Church 
married  you.  The  priest  knew  who  he  was  marrying  you 
to.  He  turned  out  what  might  have  been  expected  of  him. 
He  drank  away  your  living.  He  beat  you  almost  to  death. 
He  was  unfaithful.  You  come  then  here  to  London.  You 
leave  him,  sooner  than  be  murdered.  So  far  there's  logic, 
because  there's  life.  What  happens  then  ?  You  meet  me. 
I  ask  you  to  marry  me.  I,  whom  God  meant  that  you 
should  meet  and  marry.  You  say  it  is  impossible.  You 
point  to  the  law  and  excommunication  of  the  Church. 
To  save  you  from  that,  I  leave  you,  only  to  find  that  you 
have  chosen  this — this  life — this  hell  on  earth.  And 
you  tell  me  God  prefers  it  to  the  life  you  would  have  led 
with  me." 

"  I  believe  that  I  can  receive  forgiveness.  There  is 
not  one  moment  when  I  could  say  I  have  not  sinned.  I 
say  it  every  night." 

"Yet  still  you  sin?" 

He  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  looked  glassily  at  the 
unburned  coals  that  lay  piled  in  the  grate.  Xanno  sat  at 
the  table  and  her  teeth  chattered  involuntarily. 

Jerningham  looked  round. 

"  You  ought  to  have  this  fire  alight,"  he  said. 

She  closed  her  eyes.  The  words  reminded  her  of  an- 
other time.  Endurance  had  almost  reached  its  limit. 


368  TRAFFIC. 

"  Will  you  light  it?  "  she  said  inertly. 

He  took  out  his  match-box  aud,  striking  a  light,  knelt 
down  to  apply  it  to  the  paper.  There  came  a  pause  of 
silence  while  the  blue  flames  licked  round  the  bars;  then 
the  sticks  caught  and  crackled  like  hail  on  a  window-pane. 
Jerningham  looked  about  for  a  shovel,  a  tongs  with  which 
to  put  on  more  coals.  There  were  no  fire-irons;  only 
the  half-filled  coal-box.  He  turned  to  Nanno,  but  her 
face  was  imprisoned  in  her  hands.  A  moment  later  she 
looked  up  and  saw  him  feeding  the  fire  from  the  coal-box 
with  coals  that  he  carried  in  his  fingers. 

"  Wait,"  she  said.     "  I'll  get  a  tongs." 

"  Doesn't  matter  now/'  he  replied.     "  I've  done." 

He  stood  up  once  more  and  they  talked  again.  A  clock 
in  the  distance  of  the  city  struck  the  half-hour  after  mid- 
night. 

"  I'm  keeping  you  up,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  rising. 
He  rose  formally  as  well  and  stood  aside  as  she  went  out 
into  the  passage,  passing  into  the  kitchen.  When  she  re- 
turned, her  face  was  patched  with  white.  The  faint  appli- 
cations of  rouge  stood  out  glaringly.  Jerningham  watched 
her,  and  thought  of  the  ballet  they  had  left  behind  at  the 
Regent.  Death  in  the  face  of  a  ballet-girl  would  not 
have  looked  more  gruesome  than  Nanno  did  then. 

"You've  made  your  hands  black  with  the  coals,"  she 
said  vacantly.  "  Would  you  like  to  wash  them  ?  "  She 
crossed  the  room  to  the  other  door.  "  You  can  wash 
them  in  my  bedroom  if  you  like." 

He  was  just  about  to  accept  her  suggestion  when  he 
stopped.  She  read  the  look  of  repugnance  in  his  eyes. 
She  understood  why  he  had  thought  of  it  and  she  had 
not. 


TRAFFIC.  369 

"I  prefer  them  black,"  he  said  hardly. 

She  closed  the  door  again.  Her  pulse  then  was  beat- 
ing like  some  exhausted  animal  that  battles  feebly  with 
the  waters  that  are  dragging  it  surely  down.  The  light 
in  her  had  almost  burned  out.  She  felt  it  guttering  like 
a  wax  candle. 

The  same  clock  in  the  distance  chimed  the  hour  of 
one.  Then  Jerningham  buttoned  up  his  coat. 

"  I  mustn't  keep  you  up  any  longer,"  he  said.  He 
sorted  out  all  the  gold  that  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and 
laid  it  quietly  on  the  mantelpiece.  From  long-accustomed 
habit,  her  eyes  had  followed  his  actions  and,  seeing 
him,  the  light  in  her  flickered  up  with  a  glare;  the  last 
spurt  of  the  guttering  candle.  She  swept  the  money  from 
its  resting-place  and  brought  it  to  him. 

"  This  is  yours,"  she  said. 

Jerningham  turned  towards  the  door. 

"I've  occupied  your  time,  which  might  otherwise  have 
been  valuable.  I  look  upon  it  in  that  light.  If  you're 
not  foolish,  you'll  do  the  same." 

She  fronted  him  pleadingly. 

"  Take  it  back,"  she  whispered.  "  Mr.  Jerningham, 
take  it  back.  Xo  one  would  have  come  home  with  me 
to-night.  I  counted  the  burned  and  unburned  matches  in 
the  match-holder,  and  I  knew  they  wouldn't." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Oh,  don't  make  me  take  it !  "  she  persisted.  "  I — I 
— it  isn't  mine." 

"  I  prefer  to  pay  for  the  piper  whether  he  plays  or 
not,"  he  remarked  as  he  reached  the  door. 

She  let  the  sovereigns  tumble  out  of  her  hand.  They 
fell  with  a  glitter  and  metallic  tinkling  on  the  floor.  Jer- 
ningham took  no  notice.  He  opened  the  door. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 


310  TRAFFIC. 

She  stood  there  motionless.  Only  a  pale,  dead  glim- 
mer of  the  light  was  left.  Then  a  sound  broke  upon 
their  ears — a  sound  that  leaped  into  the  silence :  the  chok- 
ing cry  of  a  child.  It  lifted — lifted — lifted  to  a  pinnacle; 
then  fell  gutturally.  into  nothing. 

Jerningham  looked  at  her. 

"  Ah/'  he  said — his  teeth  bit  the  words.  "  You  save 
enough  to  keep  yourself  '  and ' — that  is  your  '  and.' 
Whenever  a  woman's  run  to  earth,  you'll  find  a  child  with 
her.  That  is  your  '  and.'  Good  God !  " 

He  slammed  the  door. 

For  an  instant  iSTanno  swayed  like  a  toppling  rock. 
Then  she  rushed  into  the  kitchen,  across  its  uncarpeted 
floor,  to  where  a  little  cot  stood  in  the  shelter  of  the 
range.  Everything  was  quite  still.  A  pair  of  thin,  white, 
emaciated  hands  lay  without  shape  upon  the  coverlet. 
The  eyes  were  closed,  the  mouth  stretched  open  like 
an  ugly  wound.  There  was  a  smut  on  the  baby's  cheek. 
For  a  moment  she  could  see  only  the  black,  broad  smut 
that  had  risen  from  the  kitchen  fire.  Then  her  eyes  took 
in  death,  and  she  screamed. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  MAX  was  hoseing  the  empty  street  when  Jerningham 
descended  the  stone  steps  and  came  out  again  into  the 
night.  The  volumes  of  water  gushed  out  from  the  pipe, 
cooling  the  air,  so  it  seemed,  with  its  icy  torrents,  and 
sweeping  away  all  refuse  and  dirt  with  its  flood  into 
the  gutter.  The  sight  refreshed  him.  It  felt  as  though 
the  cleansing  water  also  purged  his  mind.  He  lifted  up 
his  face  and  let  the  cold  air  play  on  it.  Then,  as  he 
walked,  he  took  off  his  hat,  carrying  it  in  his  hand.  It  was 
the  hygiene  of  the  mind  he  sought  for.  His  whole  soul 
was  infected  with  the  moral  disease  of  what  he  had  just 
beheld,  and  that  man  hoseing  the  street  was  an  antiseptic 
impression  that  he  welcomed  readily.  There  were  some 
left  who  strove  for  cleanliness !  Some  left  who  would 
purge  the  filth  of  the  streets  into  the  gutter ! 

In  such  a  manner  as  this  is  the  judgment  of  human 
nature  warped  by  the  limitations  of  its  own  personal  bias. 
Xo  man,  no  woman,  can  see  beyond  the  weapon  which  in- 
flicts the  wound  upon  their  pride.  Jerningham's  point 
of  view  was  excusable  in  that  all  the  world,  but  personally 
concerned,  would  have  felt  the  same.  He  had  been  slighted, 
he  had  been  spurned.  The  love  that  he  had  offered  ISTanno, 
a  deep  and  glowing  sentiment,  far-reaching,  unassailable, 
had  been  rejected  for  the  bartering  of  the  market-place. 
She  had  shut  the  gates  of  a  man's  love  in  order  to  keep 
open  the  doors  of  the  Church.  And  not  that  alone,  but  for 
its  justification  he  had  been  told  that  by  so  doing  she  re- 

371 


372  TRAFFIC. 

served  herself  the  ultimate  absolution  of  God.  Such  logic 
had  maddened  him.  Each  answer  that  she  had  given 
to  his  questions  had  been  a  goad  tipped  with  some  smart- 
ing poison  that  filtered  through  his  veins  and  stung  his 
mind  to  passion. 

That  for  such  a  belief,  for  such  a  credence,  the  hope 
that  he  had  held  and  the  love  that  he  had  learned  should, 
like  a  fagot,  be  snapped  across  the  knees  of  an  implacable 
law,  devoid  of  logic  and  bereft  of  mercy,  was  more  than 
his  reason  could  accept.  He  raged  against  it;  an  impotent 
prisoner  beating  with  bruised  knuckles  the  bars  of  his 
cell. 

Why  should  such  a  law,  made  by  those  with  whose 
sympathies  he  had  no  share,  be  given  existence,  to  wreak 
such  havoc  in  his  life?  He  derided  the  law.  He  cursed 
it.  He  thanked  God  bitterly,  as  a  man  who  brushes  the 
touch  of  another  from  his  coat,  that  though  it  had  robbed 
him  it  had  left  him  clean.  That  was  consolation. 

Then  what  of  Nanno  ?  It  had  robbed  her  too ;  despoiled 
her  of  everything  and  left  her  shuddering  in  the  stagnant 
pool  of  loathsome  weed  that  no  animal  would  touch  and 
no  man  would  cleanse.  With  a  giant  effort  he  turned 
his  mind  to  contemplate  what  might  be  her  point  of  view 
which,  try  as  he  might,  he  knew  he  could  never  fully 
grasp.  Yet  the  circumstances,  the  conditions,  they  were 
obvious  to  the  most  casual  eye.  He  could  not  fail  to  see 
them  and,  with  a  nobleness  of  generosity,  he  put  his  own 
grievances  aside  to  study  her  piteous  position. 

She  was  poor;  that  told  its  story  more  plainly  than  any 
declaration  of  hers.  Her  instincts  for  the  pursuit  of  such 
a  trade  were  all  at  variance  with  the  trade  itself.  How 
could  they  have  been  otherwise?  The  gentleness  of  such 
as  Nanno  could  make  no  fight  to  secure  the  flesh  that  is 
thrown  from  the  tables  of  life.  She  had  refused  the 


TRAFFIC.  373 

which  he  had  offered  her.  That  alone  would  stamp 
her  incompetence.  Her  hand  should  be  open  for  the 
drunkard  as  well  as  for  the  fool.  What  could  she  hope 
to  do  with  fingers  that  closed,  sensitively  clutching  upon 
emptiness,  rather  than  take  from  one  what  was  not  her 
due?  Never  mind  what  she  did  with  it  afterwards;  how 
lavishly  she  spent  it  or  how  generously  she  gave  it  away; 
the  minted  gold  she  must  know  how  to  take,  and  that 
for  service  ill  or  good,  before  she  could  hope  to  make  her 
way  at  such  a  trade.  But  she  did  not  know.  A  piteous 
picture  of  her  unfittedness,  a  sorry  impression  of  her  deso- 
lation, as  he  had  seen  her  sitting  in  the  Regent,  rose  up 
on  the  receptive  fiber  of  his  mind. 

Perhaps  he  had  spoken  harshly  to  her.  Perhaps  his 
wortfs  had  cut  more  than  he  meant  them  to.  In  that 
atmosphere  and  in  those  surroundings,  tainted  with  the 
heated  breath  of  other  men,  he  had  forgotten  that  he  was 
speaking  to  Xanno — Xanno,  who  had  driven  back  the 
ambling  cattle  in  the  hush  of  the  evening;  Xanno,  who 
had  milked  them  in  their  stalls  with  her  gentle  head  laid 
against  their  warm  flanks,  while  the  milk  hissed  into  the 
pail. 

He  slackened  his  footsteps — then  he  stopped. 

They  had  been  harsh  words  to  use  to  her.  Would  she 
forgive  him?  Conscience  was  smiting  him  a  little,  sting- 
ing switch.  He  turned  back,  retracing  his  steps;  and,  as 
he  walked,  the  stinging  switch  smarted  more  and  more, 
driving  him  at  length  to  long,  swinging  strides  that  rapidly 
covered  the  ground  over  which  he  had  passed. 

He  did  not  prepare  in  his  mind  the  words  he  would 
say  to  her.  Xo  exact  attitude  had  suggested  itself  for  him 
to  adopt,  unless  it  were  that  of  sympathy.  He  left  it 
entirely  to  circumstance  and  to  the  moment  as  to  what  he 
should  advise  her  to  do.  That  she  must  give  up  the  life 


374  TRAFFIC. 

that  she  was  leading  was  the  first  and  most  obvious  fact 
for  accomplishment.  If  some  other  means  of  subsistence 
were  put  in  her  way,  he  did  not  imagine  that  she  would 
be  hard  to  persuade.  No  doubt  had  ever  entered  his  mind 
that  the  pressure  must  have  been  great  indeed  to  drive 
her  to  such  an  extremity  of  life.  How  deeply  it  spoke 
then  of  her  great  respect  for  him,  that  she  had  never  ap- 
proached one  whom  she  knew  loved  her,  for  support.  The 
thought  sped  warmly  like  wine  through  his  blood.  That 
at  least,  in  the  midst  of  all  her  degradation,  bespoke  a 
greatness  of  heart  that  was  almost  worthy  of  nobility; 
and,  virtue  though  she  had  none,  a  prey  to  the  lusts  of  men 
as  she  was,  he  looked  up  to  her  for  that.  Other  women 
would  not  have  done  the  same.  They  would  have  written 
their  whining  letters  and  licked  the  flap  of  the  envelope 
with  a  calculating  tongue.  Nanno  had  been  above  that; 
and  it  touched  his  admiration  for  the  greatness  of  life. 

From  all  this  it  may  be  seen  that  Jerningham  was  no 
mere  conventionalist.  For  so  long  had  he  moved  in  an 
atmosphere  unbiassed  by  any  narrow  social  law,  for  so 
long  had  he  been  accustomed  to  look  to  his  own  reason 
for  judgment  upon  matters,  rather  than  rely  on  the  in- 
fluence of  unyielding  moral  codes  that,  when  he  came 
to  regard  the  case  of  Nanno  Troy,  apart  from  those  bitter 
personal  feelings  which  had  driven  him  in  the  beginning, 
his  standpoint  was  one  that  would  no  doubt  irrevocably 
offend  the  British  matron  and  draw  from  the  lips  of  the 
paterfamilias  such  remarks  as  "  Lax !  "  "  Eotten  to  the 
core !  "  "  Not  the  right  way  to  judge  a  loose  woman." 

The  shockingness  of  sin  is  so  potent  an  influence  on 
the  world  at  large,  that  there  are  many  who  prefer  to  shut 
their  eyes  to  it  and  do  nothing,  disregarding  the  fact 
that  the  very  foundation  of  Christianity  bases  itself  upon 
the  point  that  we  are  one  and  all,  indiscriminately  of 
persons,  born  with  that,  rather  than  original  virtue,  in  our 


TRAFFIC.  375 

natures.  Inasmuch  as  Jerningham  was  outside  the  pale  of 
these  chicken-hearted  people  of  whom  the  philosopher 
Nietzsche  said,  "There  was  only  one  Christian,  and  He 
died  on  the  Cross  " ;  so  the  shockingness  of  Nanno's  im- 
morality had  no  power  to  deter  him  from  regarding  the 
just  view  of  her  case.  She  must  be  saved,  and  he  was  re- 
turning to  save  her. 

In  another  moment  or  so  he  came  in  sight  of  the 
block  of  buildings  from  which  he  had  departed  in  so  dif- 
ferent a  frame  of  mind  but  half  an  hour  before.  The 
servant  of  the  corporation  had  disappeared;  the  road  was 
swept  and  garnished.  In  the  little  puddles  of  water  that 
had  found  existence  in  the  uneven  hollows  of  the  wood 
pavement  the  reflections  of  the  gas-lamps  twinkled  like 
pieces  of  glass.  The  jingling  bells  of  a  hansom  in  the 
distance  irritated  the  heavy  silence.  There  was  not  a 
soul  in  sight. 

He  was  scarcely  more  than  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
main  entrance  to  the  building,  when  the  black  figure  of 
a  woman  emerged  from  the  yawning  patch  that  he  knew 
to  be  the  doorway.  A  dark  shawl  was  wrapped  around 
her  shoulders,  bulging  disfiguringly  at  her  side,  as  though 
beneath  it  she  were  carrying  an  ungainly  parcel. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  his  first  thoughts  should 
fly  to  Xanno,  before  he  had  absolute  proof  of  recognition. 
So  convinced  was  he  of  her  identity  that,  instead  of  enter- 
ing the  block  of  buildings  and  going  first  to  find  whether 
she  was  in,  he  crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  and, 
keeping  close  within  the  shadow  of  the  shops,  he  hastened 
his  steps  until  she  was  near  enough  for  identification. 
The  next  lamp-post  under  which  she  passed  convinced  him. 
It  was  Xanno.  What  was  she  doing?  Where  was  she 
going  at  that  unearthly  hour  of  the  night? 

She  walked  unswervingly;  looked  neither  to  the  left 
hand  nor  to  the  right.  A  set  purpose  seemed  to  be  guid- 


376  TRAFFIC. 

ing  her.  When  she  took  a  turning,  it  was  unfalteringly. 
Her  destination  was  obviously  fixed.  The  steps  she  took 
were  not  hasty.  Had  he  not  known  it  to  be  impossible, 
he  would  have  declared  that  she  was  walking  in  her  sleep. 
Once  she  hesitated.  He  stopped  immediately.  He 
thought  she  was  about  to  turn  back;  then  he  saw  that  it 
was  merely  in  order  to  ease  the  weight  of  the  bundle 
which  she  carried  under  her  shawl.  When  that  was  settled 
to  her  satisfaction,  she  hurried  on  more  quickly  than  be- 
fore. 

They  entered  Trafalgar  Square  from  St.  Martin's  Lane, 
Kanno  keeping  to  the  left  pavement,  passing  by  the  long 
steps  of  the  church,  Jerningham  still  following  his  course, 
walking  on  the  opposite  side. 

The  statues  under  the  shelter  of  the  Column  rose  up  into 
the  darkness  like  black  shadows  which  the  night  has 
brought  to  rest.  Jerningham  passed  them  unseeingly, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  Nanno's  hastening  figure  which,  in  that 
vast  open  space,  looked  so  pathetically  alone. 

When  she  came  to  the  post-office  she  turned  unhesi- 
tatingly into  the  Strand.  Jerningham  followed.  Only 
at  the  station  of  Charing  Cross,  where  the  railings  separate 
the  courtyard  from  the  road,  did  he  stop.  Through  them 
the  light  was  falling  conspicuously.  He  waited  in  the 
shadows  until  she  would  have  passed  far  enough  ahead  not 
to  recognize  him  as  he  crossed  the  open  space.  He  was 
just  about  to  move  on,  when  she  crossed  the  street  and  dis- 
appeared down  Villiers  Street,  that  leads  to  the  Embank- 
ment. 

For  a  moment  his  heart  was  jolted  with  a  thought, 
and  the  next  instant  he  had  covered  the  distance  between 
him  and  the  top  of  the  street  in  long,  eager  strides.  When 
he  turned  the  corner,  she  was  scarcely  thirty  paces  ahead 
of  him;  but  here  the  light  was  faint  and  intermittent, 


TRAFFIC.  377 

and  the  thought  that  had  leaped  into  his  brain  was  still 
revolving  like  a  windmill  in  a  gale.  He  did  not  pause 
to  let  her  increase  the  distance;  his  long  strides  if  any- 
thing diminished  it.  She  kept  her  way  continuously,  mak- 
ing directly  towards  the  underground  railway  station  at 
the  bottom.  Before  she  reached  it,  she  turned  sharp  to 
the  right. 

"  God !  "  said  Jerningham  under  his  breath,  and  a  chill- 
ing sweat  rushed  to  the  surface,  damping,  soaking  even 
into  his  clothes.  She  had  mounted  the  steps  to  Hunger- 
ford  Bridge. 

Now  again  she  was  out  of  sight  and,  like  a  bloodhound 
drawing  the  burning  scent  into  its  nostrils,  his  legs 
stretched  out  into  a  creeping  run,  bringing  him  to  the 
bottom  of  the  stone  stairs  as  he  heard  her  turn  the  first 
corner. 

There  he  stopped.  Was  he  a  fool?  What  was  it  to 
him?  Was  it  the  hour  of  night  and  the  witches  of  dark- 
ness just  playing  a  game  of  havoc  with  his  thoughts? 
The  kind  of  life  she  now  led  might  reasonably  bring 
Nanno  out  upon  some  vicious  errand  at  this  time  of  night. 
Supposing  he  stopped  her  and  found  that  his  fears  had 
fooled  him?  All  this  might  reasonably  be.  But  in  the 
recesses  of  his  mind  hung  the  memory  of  the  harsh  words 
that  he  had  used  to  her;  hung  there,  as  the  black  cap  of 
the  judge  hangs  limply  on  its  nail,  reminding  him  of 
death.  Fool  or  no  fool,  he  could  not  bear  it  and,  taking 
two  steps  at  a  time,  he  continued  the  pursuit. 

When  he  reached  the  top  she  was  some  yards  away  on 
the  narrow  bridge.  Below  her,  in  the  muddy  water, 
gleamed  like  a  gauntlet  of  dancing  eyes  the  reflections 
of  the  Embankment  lights.  Nothing  was  moving  on  the 
river.  As  far  up  as  the  next  bridge  all  was  sleeping 
water. 


378  TRAFFIC. 

He  dared  not  take  his  eyes  off  her.  And  now  he  was 
walking  upon  the  tips  of  his  toes.  Fate  seemed  marvel- 
ously  to  be  conspiring  with  her,  if  that  indeed  were  her 
purpose,  for  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

Once  or  twice  as  she  walked,  now  more  slowly,  more  de- 
liberately, she  paused  and  looked  over  the  handrail  beneath. 
At  length  she  stood  still  and,  even  then  giving  to  Jerning- 
ham  that  impression  of  somnambulism,  she  put  her  hands 
on  the  wooden  rail  as  though  to  raise  herself. 

For  the  man  of  action  that  was  more  than  enough. 
With  her  name  on  his  lips  he  bounded  forward,  a  power 
of  saving  life  shot  from  the  bowels  of  a  machine. 

With  a  spasmodic  twist  of  her  head,  she  looked  round. 
Then,  hastily,  she  put  her  foot  upon  the  ironwork.  A 
little  moan  crushed  a  way  out  of  her  lips.  The  foot 
slipped.  With  a  colossal  effort  she  tried  again,  impeded 
by  the  bundle  that  she  held;  but  this  time,  raising  her 
body  to  the  waist  above  the  rail,  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
overbalance  when  he  came  within  her  reach. 

She  was  lost — perhaps  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  was 
lost — but  this  was  death.  He  made  a  vice  of  his  arms 
and  held  her  there. 

As  a  rabbit  that  writhes  between  the  iron  teeth  of  a 
trap,  she  struggled  in  his  arms. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  she  cried.  "  Let  me  go !  I  don't  want 
to  live !  I  can't  live !  " 

The  awful  blasphemy  of  the  words  made  his  muscles 
strain  and  crack. 

"You're  not  going,  ISTanno,"  he  said,  with  intense  and 
breathless  quiet.  "  There's  more  life  yet — better  than 
what  there  has  been." 

She  struggled  again,  more  feebly  than  before. 

"  What  have  you  got  here  ?  "  he  asked,  feeling  the  bundle 
with  her  in  his  arms. 


TRAFFIC.  379 

She  did  not  reply.  From  having  struggled,  her  body 
quivered  like  a  blade  of  grass  that  the  wind  plays  with. 

"  What  have  you  got  here  ?  "  he  asked  again.  He  pulled 
aside  the  edge  of  the  shawl.  The  sightless,  glazed  eyes  of 
a  baby  met  his;  its  face  was  blue — cold — dead. 

A  nauseous  sensation  that  he  had  arrested  the  natural 
course  of  a  woman  distraught  with  crime,  flooded  his 
mind — an  oozing  liquid  that  swamped  him  with  sickly 
impotence. 

"  How — how  did  this  happen  ?  "  he  asked.  This  was 
the  child  who  an  hour  before  had  lived  and  thrilled  them 
both  with  its  ugly  cry. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  When  you  left "  the  words  chattered  almost  in- 

audibly  between  her  teeth. 

"  Yes :  when  I  left — it  was  alive — I  heard  it  cry." 

"  That  cry  was  its  last.  I  found  it  dead — in  the  kit- 
chen. I  had  nothing  else — what  could  you  expect?  I'd 
been  living  for  that." 

"  Where's  its  father — do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"My  husband." 

Jerningham  made  an  effort  to  understand. 

"  When  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  After— after  I  left  the  Fulham  Eoad." 

Just  those  few  words  painted  a  picture  with  a  coarse  and 
hurried  brush  to  which  only  the  distance  of  time  lent 
perspective.  He  saw  the  picture,  thrust  for  the  moment 
under  the  light.  Whether  the  details  were  correct  or  not 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  consider.  He  saw  the  picture. 

Then  slowly  his  arms  bound  round  her  tighter — a  force 
that  seemed  life  without  sentiment.  He  put  his  face 
against  her  face — he  shuddered — then  he  kissed  her. 

THE  END. 


PR 
6039 


000561  216     3 


